Start Again
by shakeitsalome
Summary: He's trying to figure out his place in the company he walked away from. She's trying to figure out her place in the world after walking away from all she's known. Shane McMahon/OC
1. Chapter One

**A/N: Yep. New story. Special thanks to Laurie for being the best idea-bouncer-offer, cheerleader extraordinaire, and all the late-night texting sessions. :)**

Chapter One

She had stepped into the restroom to quadruple-check her appearance, but Cat Watson also took the time to give herself a mental pep-talk. After making sure her teeth were clean, she gave her armpits a tentative whiff to be certain her deodorant was working. The buttons of her white blouse weren't uneven. The side seams of her black skirt were straight. Her black pumps were free of scuff marks and mud.

Her hair wasn't unkempt. Could she say it was kempt? Was that a word? It should be, she decided. Her makeup wasn't a mask, nor was it smeared. The clasp of her necklace was at the back of her neck. Drawing in a deep breath, she expelled it slowly.

"I can do this," she whispered to her reflection. "I've been called back for a second interview, with the man I'll be working for. The battle is practically won. Just be cool. Don't get to rambling. I've got this."

Was it her imagination, or had her reflection rolled its eyes? With a shake of her head, she turned away from the mirror. "I've got this," she whispered again. She picked up her purse and strode to the door, stopping to make sure no toilet paper was stuck to either of her shoes. Not that the bathroom was messy – it was easily one of the cleanest public restrooms she'd ever entered – but one could never be too careful.

Her shoes were toilet paper free. She sighed again, then squared her shoulders and left the restroom. Chin up, shoulders back, she strode down the hallway, following the directions the receptionist had given her. Hoping she exuded more confidence than she felt, she went to the end of the corridor and hesitated only briefly outside the door she was to go through.

"Got this," she hissed under her breath and entering the room. It was an outer office. Her office if – no, _when_ – she got the job. It was bright, sunlight coming through the bank of windows on the southern wall. The two chairs for guests matched others she'd seen in the building. The U-shaped desk in the corner was empty save for a bedraggled philodendron and an office phone. There was no office chair. Nothing on the walls.

She took a step forward, a curse coming out in a yelp as her foot connected with something solid. Looking down, she saw a white storage box. It was full, obviously. Stepping over it, she saw others stacked here and there. The door leading to the inner office was open, and she could hear music playing from within. Stepping around the other boxes, she stopped in the doorway and leaned in. No one was in there. Just in case her possible new boss had stepped into the restroom, she rapped loudly on the open door. No reply. She rapped again, a little bit louder this time, then stepped over boxes to take a chair and wait.

The philodendron had dropped more, if possible. As she looked at it, a dead leaf fell to the desk. She bit her lip, then finally muttered a curse and retrieved her bottled water from her purse. She had to lean across the desk to pull the pot closer to her, but did so, uncapping the bottle so she could give the plant some hydration. Unable to help herself, she plucked off the dead leaves, making it look sadder than it had before. She saw no wastebasket and crumpled the leaves in her fist for later disposal. Surely there would be one in the next room. Satisfied she'd done what she could to extend the poor plant's life, she returned to her seat.

She was beginning to think she'd come to the wrong office when the outer door swung open. A male figure backed in, head tilted at an odd angle. He turned slightly, and she saw a phone pressed between his ear and shoulder. In his arms were two of the storage boxes. One began slip and he leaned to drop both on the floor. Back still too her, he caught the phone in one hand.

"I know," he said. His voice was smooth, modulated. It reminded her of the silky-voiced radio DJs of her childhood. From the days before digital music. When she'd had to hold a tape recorder up to her dad's old stereo to record a new favorite song. Despite the smoothness though, his voice was laced with irritation. "Look, I've got to go. I've got someone coming in for the assistant job." He paused, shoulders rising and falling on a sigh. "Yes, I'll be there. We have to be there at eight, so make sure the boys are ready. What? …Why would I bring my sister? Yeah. Bye."

He lowered the phone with a sound of disgust. Cat sensed that he wished it was a flip phone so he could end the call angrily. Instead, all he could do was jab at the screen and shove the phone into his pocket.

Feeling as though she were intruding, she made no sound and looked to the floor while he sighed and ran a hand over his face. Gaze landing on a pair of gleaming red and white sneakers, she blinked in surprise. They looked as though they'd just come out of a box straight from the factory. She was positive she'd never seen such clean sneakers. Did he wear surgical booties when he went outdoors?

The absurd thought caused a giggle to bubble up her throat. She clapped a hand over her mouth, but the sneakers moved. She jerked her gaze upwards as he turned, and her eyes met his. Seeing the surprise on her face, she swallowed the giggle and cleared her throat, slowly rising to her feet.

"Um, hi," she greeted. Then mentally kicked herself. So much for the brilliant greeting she'd rehearsed in her mind.

"Hello." His hand fell to rest over the pocket he'd put his phone in, and there was a brief look of panic on his face before he replaced it with a warm smile. He stepped forward. "I'm sorry I kept you waiting."

"I was early. No problem." She uncurled her fisted hand and slipped it into his for a shake, only to freeze at the grit between their palms. Looking down, she saw crumpled leaves floating to the floor. Her face flamed with mortification and she jerked her hand away, rubbing her hands together to get rid of the leaf debris. "Oh my god. I'm so sorry. Your philodendron needed water, so I gave it some of mine. And I picked off the dead leaves. There's no wastebasket in here, and I couldn't just throw them on the floor. Like I just did…"

Her voice trailed into a sigh and she brushed her palm over skirt to make sure no more bits of leaves were there.

"What do you say we start over?" she offered meekly, looking to his face. His close-cropped hair was dark, shot through with silver, and he was clean-shaven. A light tan set off the strong square jaw, and she saw a slight cleft in his chin. He was fighting a smile. Or perhaps he was fighting laughter at her stupidity. But he nodded, lips twitching, then turned his head to the side to cough against his shoulder. Or maybe he was choking on a laugh.

"Right. Sorry." He turned to her again, once more smiling warmly. "Good morning."

"Good morning. I'm here for my eleven thirty interview with Mr. McMahon."

"Of course. You're Miss Watson?" He was extending his hand again.

"Very good," she whispered.

"Don't break character," he whispered in return. Then, in normal tones, he continued, "It is Miss Watson, right?"

"Yes." She slipped her hand into his for a shake, pleased that this time is was problem-free. His hand was warm, his grip strong. "Mr. McMahon?"

"Yes, but please call me Shane. Mr. McMahon is my father." His brown eyes twinkled, and he released her hand. As he did so, her anxiety slipped away.

"Then you must call me Cat."

"Cat?" he repeated, one eyebrow rising.

"Short for Catriona."

"That's a beautiful Irish name. Why shorten it?"

"I… Don't know, honestly. My parents always called me Cat. If someone calls me Catriona, I think I'm either in trouble or back in school. Besides, most people pronounce it wrong…"

"Then Cat it is." His lips curved into a grin. "Good do-over."

"Yes, it was," she agreed, letting out a relieved laugh.

Shane gestured to the open door leading into the inner office. "Please, come in. And forgive the mess. I'm still getting things arranged."

She stepped around boxes, grateful to find his office wasn't littered with them. While he moved to the speaker dock on the large desk she looked around, taking in the panoramic view the two walls of windows offered. Her first thought was that she wished she could photograph the vista. Her second thought was that he had really meant t when he said he was still getting things arranged. There were a few boxes stacked in front of the empty shelves that lined one wall, and random mementos of a life she didn't know were bunched together here and there.

The music ended mid-word, and she quickly crossed to the chair he indicated. As she sat, her gaze landed on a framed photo of three boys. All were mugging for the camera, with extreme grins and wide eyes, the smaller of the three in the middle. They resembled Shane, she thought. "Your sons?" she guessed.

He smiled. "Yes. My pride and joy." He set his iPod down on the desk then sat down in the chair beside hers after turning it slightly. One foot propped on the opposite knee, he gave her a reassuring smile. "This is all just a formality," he said, gesturing between them. "I've read over the notes from your other interview, gone over your résumé, and checked your references. Just a few questions to go over, and we'll move on from there."

"Alright." She set her purse on the floor and nudged it beneath her chair with one foot. Hearing her mother's voice reprimanding her to sit properly, she straightened her spine, crossed her ankles, and made sure her knees were pressed together before clasping her hands in her lap.

Shane settled back in his chair, knee bouncing lightly as he looked inside a folder he'd pulled from his desk. "Your passport's in good order, isn't it? The job requires travel."

"Just renewed it last summer," she told him. "And I've had all the vaccines."

"Good. No reason you can't go overseas for, say, a month at the time, is there? No elderly relative living with you?" He was squinting at the page he was looking over, and the way he tilted it hinted that he needed reading glasses.

"No, I'm clear of those kinds of responsibilities. I live alone. No pets. No kids." Why had she said that? If she had children, it would be in the file he was flipping through. The man who'd previously interviewed her had told her they would do a thorough background check. And he'd said it in a way that hinted she better come clean immediately before they dug up something on her.

"How familiar are you with the business?" Shane asked, dragging her attention away from the annoying man she'd spoken with last time.

"You mean wrestling? Um… Well." She faltered, pursing her lips briefly before exhaling sharply. "I watched a little bit when I was a kid, but it was never really my thing. My mind was always on other things, so… I suppose the answer would be not very much."

He nodded, and raised his head. "We're on the road year-round. You'll be traveling with me, which means you'll be on the road Saturday nights through Tuesday mornings. Wednesdays and Thursdays you'll be here in the office. Fridays and most of Saturdays you'll be off. Every once in a while you'll be able to fly out on a Sunday. When we go to Europe and the like you'll be there until the tour ends, and they usually last a few weeks." He paused for a moment, his gaze inscrutable. "The sleep schedule probably won't be the best, but there will be plenty of hours off during the day to yourself to catch up if you need to."

"I understand."

"It's not glamorous," he went on. Then he chuckled, seemingly reading her next thought. "Don't think I'm trying to talk you out of taking the job. This company is a great way to see a lot of the world. I just need you to understand how it will be, at least as much as you can before you're thrown into it. Do you have a boyfriend?"

"I beg your pardon?" she blurted, surprised by the sudden change in subject.

"People that aren't used to the lifestyle tend to not understand. Jealous significant others are one of the uglier realities." He dropped his foot to the floor. "If you do have someone in your life, I can meet with him—"

"I don't have a boyfriend," she announced.

"I didn't mean to pry," he said softly. Then, clearing his throat, he tossed the folder back onto the desk. "Now, to your duties. I know you met with Jason two weeks ago. But, to be honest, he's in an office eight hours a day, five days a week. He has no idea what needs doing on the road. Did he go over anything at all?"

"He said the job included minor secretarial duties, like keeping up with appointments and making travel arrangements. And when you're on the road I have to keep in contact with the office here in case something comes up. Keep track of Mr. McMahon, Mr. and Mrs. Levesque, and Mr. Dunn?" she added a questioning lilt, unsure if she'd remembered the name correctly. When he nodded, she continued. "I'll have to keep track of where they are in arenas, in case either of them need you. He also said I have to see to things like your cleaning, your luggage, and making sure all your needs are met."

Shane wrinkled his nose. "That makes me sound like a spoiled kid, doesn't it? I promise, you won't have to cut my steaks or sing me lullabies."

Cat snorted on a laugh. Then her humor died away. He was speaking as though she'd already gotten the job. As if it were already decided. Heart thudding in her chest, she drew in a shaky breath. "I—"

"Can I ask why you moved from finance to this type of job?"

The breath left her in an instant.

"I saw that your last position was with Goldman Sachs. I spoke to your reference from there, a Mr..." He reached for the folder.

"Hines," she supplied, hating how croaky her voice sounded to her own ears.

"Yes, Mr. Hines. He gave you a glowing reference, and said that you were on the cusp of promotion." Shane's eyes held many questions.

"I needed a change of pace," she answered after a moment. "I had been there since my internship. I got bogged down. Sixty hours a week and…" She was starting to babble now, and forced herself to stop to take a breath. "It wasn't the pace of the job. I had no trouble keeping up with it all. It just… It no longer fit me."

He tilted his head slightly. "And if this doesn't fit you?"

She blinked. Thought of her dwindling bank account. The borderline nagging phone calls from her family members. The suggestions that she could always move back home. "I don't know," she managed. "Look for something that will, I suppose."

"I see." He rested his hands on his knees and rose to his feet.

Disappointment flooded her. He wasn't going to offer her the job. He probably thought her flighty. She was going to have to keep looking. Or move back in with her parents. Working for her father wouldn't be too bad. At least it would be a job, the fact that she had no interest in bookkeeping for a mechanic notwithstanding. Reaching for her purse, she got to her feet and wondered what she should say.

Shane pushed up the sleeves of his gray Henley. His expression was relaxed, and as she still searched for words to say, he smiled. "I won't make you wait for a decision. As far as I'm concerned, the job is yours."

"Really?" she croaked.

"Really," he chuckled. "You're competent, intelligent, have a wonderful work history. You seem fit enough to handle running back and forth in an arena if need be. And, between you and me, you're the only applicant that wasn't a wrestling fan."

"Why would that be in my favor?"

"Miss Watson – Cat – I don't want a personal assistant that is more interested in checking out the product than they are making sure their job is being done. I don't want someone that's going to want to talk wrestling and storylines nonstop. I need someone who can keep track of everything that's going on. And I think that someone is you."

"Thank you," she said, the gratitude heartfelt. "I truly appreciate your willingness to give me a chance."

"Everyone deserves a chance or two." He glanced to his phone when his phone vibrated, then his attention swiveled to her again. "When can you start?"

"When do you need me?" she asked. She was anxious to get started, because she would have to get used to working with him. She would prefer doing that in the office, where she would know where nearly everything was. Besides, she saw no need to wait a week. It wasn't as though she had another job to leave before she could start.

He gestured to the mess of boxes, lips forming a self-deprecating smile. "As soon as possible. You know the job has to start Monday in Detroit, and if you'd like to wait until then, that's fine."

"Tomorrow?" she suggested. The sooner the better.

"That works for me. There's still your salary to go over, and I think there are about three thousand forms for you to sign. You don't have carpal tunnel syndrome, do you?"

She laughed, wriggling her fingers. "Not a bit."

"Good. We'll get started on that right away." He held out a hand.

She took it, returning the squeeze he gave her fingers.

"Welcome aboard, Cat."

* * *

Shane was later getting to the office than he had planned. He had wanted to get there early so he could help Miss Watson – Cat – settle in, but Fate had intervened. He would have liked to have been able to blame noisy neighbors, or a headache that kept him from falling asleep, but the truth was that he'd just had a crappy night. His mind had not wanted to turn off when he'd gone to bed. It wasn't a regular occurrence, although it happened enough to be annoying. And now that he was back to working in the family business, it was happening more and more frequently. Nerves, he supposed. Trepidation after being gone so long. When he had finally managed to fall asleep, it had only been a couple hours before his alarm started blaring.

Then his coffeemaker had decided to die. Groggy and cranky, he'd had to take everything off the counter in the kitchen to clean up the leaked water. Coffee grounds had gone everywhere. By the time he'd gotten it all cleaned up, he'd been crankier than he had when he'd gotten out of bed.

His scrambled eggs had stuck to the pan. His toast and burned. He'd cut his chin shaving.

Still grumbling under his breath, he crossed the lobby, noting with irritation that the receptionist had coffee and a delicious smelling breakfast sandwich on his desk. Everyone waiting for the elevator was holding coffee. He would have damned them all to hell if he had thought it would do any good. Instead, he managed a smile, letting it slip once he was on the elevator.

He stopped by his father's office. The secretary, who had held the job for as long as Shane could remember, was sipping from a cup of coffee. She told him that Vince wasn't expected for another hour. Shane looked longingly at the coffeepot behind her desk. He was offered none, though, and made his way down the hall to his office at the other end of the building.

As soon as he passed through the outer door, he came to a standstill. And felt his irritation begin to slip away.

Miss Watson – _Cat_ – was already there. And, God bless her, she was scooping ground coffee into a brand new coffeemaker. And, God bless her future children, there were two cups waiting next to it.

"Good morning," she greeted cheerfully, switching on the pot and storing the can of coffee on the shelf next to it.

"Morning." He let go of the doorknob and entered the room fully so the door could shut behind him.

She looked at him, head tilted to one side, light blue eyes squinting just a bit. "You've got a little…" She motioned to her own ear. He stared at her, confused, and she stepped over and swiped a finger over his earlobe. "Shaving cream," she murmured, wiping her finger on a tissue she pulled out of nowhere.

"Thanks," he sighed, just a little amused when she stood on her tiptoes to wipe his ear again.

"There," she declared, stepping back. "How do you take your coffee?"

"Cream, no sugar." She was making him coffee. Okay, maybe she was just being polite because she was making coffee for herself. But he was pleased just the same.

"I'll bring it in as soon as it's ready." She was walking over.

He glanced around, blinking in surprise when he saw the desk had been transformed from its barrenness. The scraggly houseplant she'd babbled about the day before was still there, in what he was sure was a new pot. The computer that had been brought in the previous afternoon was in place and on, the WWE logo serving as its wallpaper. A few small picture frames were grouped together near the monitor. Beside the office phone was a vase with a cluster of yellow flowers.

The door to his office was closed. He went inside, still marveling at the transformation of her office, and halted again. Once more, he blinked in surprise.

"If you don't like them, I'll take them out," Cat said behind him. He could hear the worry in her voice.

"No, no, it's fine." He felt the urge to smile, this time for real, and did so as he entered the office. The blinds were open. The newspaper was waiting for him on the center of his desk. She'd straightened up. He looked around, noting she'd arranged all his mementos and the little things he'd brought in to liven up the space. When he'd left the day before they'd been jumbled. All the boxes had been emptied and were now gone. Even his desk was neater. There was a blotter. His office phone was no longer on the floor. The scattered pens were neatly tucked into a cup. The guest chairs had been shifted to face the desk, cattycorner to each other. On a small table against the wall was the vase of flowers.

Shane sat down, taking it all in. Catching a faint aroma of citrus, he looked down at his desk and saw the wood was gleaming. Had she polished it?

"Here you go." She was striding into the office, cup of coffee in hand.

He half rose, leaning to take the cup. A sigh passed his lips after he breathed in the aroma. "Thank you."

"No problem."

"You didn't have to do…" He gestured to all the things she'd done in the office. "All this."

"I didn't mind. I got here at eight, and once I set up my desk, well, there was really nothing to do." She gave a brief smile. "And if you don't like how I put things, my feelings won't be hurt if you redo it all."

"You got here at eight?"

"I had to set up my stuff," she explained.

"I'm just a little surprised." He lifted his cup for a sip and sighed again. God bless her future grandchildren, too. "You got here early, I got here late. Seems fitting."

"If you want, I can be late tomorrow."

He looked up in time to see the teasing smile. "Did you get my email—"

"Your schedule? Yes. Media wants you this afternoon for a photoshoot." She took the empty cup from his hand.

He groaned, not looking forward to time spent in one spot for a photographer. It was impossible for him to stay still for too long. "Let them know I'll come down at two. I have to run home and get a suit at lunch."

"Sure thing. Refill?"

"Yes. But, Cat, you don't have—" He cut off with a sigh. She was already on her way out the door. With a shake of his head, he reached for the newspaper. Through the open door he could hear the phone on Cat's desk start to ring, then her voice.

"Shane McMahon's office, Cat Watson speaking. How may I help you?"

He scanned the front page, nodding in approval at the professional tone. Answering the phone wasn't something they'd gone over the previous day. Most of the afternoon had been taken up with her signing al the required forms, and him showing her around the building so she would have a feel of the place. Proud of how she sounded, he continued reading over the front of the paper and glanced up when Cat cleared her throat.

"Mr. McMahon wants to see you."

Dad? Why hadn't he… Shane reached for the front pocket of his jeans, where he always kept his phone, and felt nothing. "Shit," he muttered, dropping the paper and getting to his feet. He patted his pockets repeatedly. As though by doing so he could make the phone appear. But of course it didn't. He could feel his keys. His wallet. But no phone. He would swear he'd had it when he left his house. "Shit…"

"He, um, wants to see you now." Cat pursed her lips. "Are you okay?"

"I think I left my phone in my car. Or at home. Now?" He wondered what the problem was.

"I'll check your car for you," Cat offered. "And yes, now. Is his secretary always so brusque?"

"She has been as long as I've known her." Handing over his keys, he met her eyes. "Thanks. And I promise, I'm usually more on the ball."

"We all have a bad morning here and there. Do you want me to go to your house and look for it if it's not in the car?"

"I'm positive it's in the car. I always put it in the cup holder." But what if it wasn't? Knowing his father would be getting more and more irritated with each passing second, he grabbed a pen from the cup and scribbled his address on a post-it note. "Just in case… The other key on the ring is to the apartment. This is the security code. Make sure to hit the 'Armed' button when you leave. And take my car if you have to go. No need wasting your gas."

"Got it." She took the note and looked at what he'd written.

"Just hold onto it until I get back," he requested before heading out. He wished he could restart the day. Better yet, he wished he could rewind back to his bedtime the previous night and restart it all. Hearing Cat call his name, he stopped and turn, smiling when she held out his refilled cup. Vince could wait one more minute. "Thanks."

Sipping it, he idly watched Cat gather her purse and phone. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Had it been that wavy the day before? It was dark, with hints of a reddish tint, and he watched the ponytail sway with each movement. She was wearing something similar to what she'd worn to the interview. A knee-length black skirt and pale pink blouse. Wardrobe leftover from her days in finance, he supposed. She leaned to retrieve her coat and he found himself looking down, taking in the gentle curves of her body, following the length of the leg she raised for balanced.

Pretty, too, he thought, glancing to the profile of her face as she fidgeted with the office phone. Little makeup. Her lips were glossed, and he thought he'd seen a touch of shimmer on her cheeks. Her skin looked creamy. He followed the length of her leg again. She was wearing high heels. Thinking of all the running she would undoubtedly have to do when they were at an arena, he silently hoped she would pack sneakers.

"Done?" she asked, breaking into his thoughts.

Shane blanked momentarily, fearing she'd noticed him checking her out. Then, when she gestured to his coffee, he nodded and handed over the cup. "Thanks for doing this," he said, opening the door and waiting for her to go out first.

"It's my job," she reminded him. "It has been for…" She shook her arm slightly and looked to the watch on her wrist. "Almost two hours now. Besides, I like to think you're doing this as a little test for me."

"If I was going to test you, I'd be sending you across town to pick up my cleaning."

She walked past him, leaving a faint aroma of perfume in her wake. "Do you need me to do that?"

"No," he promised. "You're in the employee lot, right? I'm parked in the center lane, at the far end."

They'd reached the elevators. Down the hallway, he could see his father.

"I'll find it."

"Thanks again." He waited for her to step onto the elevator before continuing on, and met his father outside the office.

"Where the hell is your phone?"

"Good morning to you too," Shane greeted. "I either left it at home or in the car. Cat's going to get it for me."

"Cat?" Vince McMahon held out a hand to his secretary, who handed over a neat stack of mail. "Coffee," he told her while going into his office.

Shane followed his father. "My personal assistant," he explained while settling into a chair facing the desk.

"The hot little piece I just saw you with?" Vince dropped the mail on his desk and shrugged out of his suit jacket.

Shane made a face. The description seemed crude, especially in relation to Cat. She was attractive. Pleasing to the eye. But a hot little piece? He recalled her bent over to get her jacket and steeled himself against the sudden wave of heat. She was his employee. Even if he wanted, he couldn't look at her like _that_. He shook his head slightly. Better not to answer at all. "You needed to see me?"

"Yes." Vince sat, much like a king on his throne. "Did she sign the papers?"

No need pretending he didn't know who 'she' was. "I told Mom… Yes. We meet in two weeks to discuss the financials."

"Are you still giving her half of everything?" Vince began to thumb through the mail. Why, Shane didn't know. His secretary opened it all, sorted it, and typed up initial responses. A bit presumptuous on her part, but Janet was an old-school dragon. Much like Vince.

"Not everything. Just what was acquired since the wedding date." Shane kept his face as impassive as humanly possible, focusing on a bit of nothingness just beyond his father's right shoulder.

"Hmph." Vince tossed the mail aside as the door opened. Janet marched in, carrying a tray with two cups of coffee, creamer, and a bowl of sugar cubes. The tray was placed gently on the corner of the desk. At Vince's nod, she scooped up the mail and marched out, the door snapping closed behind her.

"She's told me she won't touch the stock," Shane announced. Because he knew that was what his father was worried about.

"Make sure she doesn't. Get it in writing."

"Dad," Shane sighed. "You've always liked Marissa."

Vince's eyes narrowed. "I still like her. Hell, I love her like a daughter. I don't understand all this bullshit. You say you still love her. So what the hell is the problem? Why divorce?"

Shane sat back in his seat, knowing that nothing he could say would make his father understand. They'd gone over it countless times. And just when he thought the matter was settled, his father brought it up all over again. "We're not who we were twenty years ago."

"What the hell difference does that make? Nobody's who they were twenty years ago." Vince angrily sloshed cream into his cup and shoved his spoon into the coffee to give it a quick stir. "Are you having one of those damned midlife crises?"

"No." Shane tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. Knowing the diatribe that was coming, he could only sit and let it happen.

"Then just go fuck a few different women. Get it out of your system. That's what I've always done. Variety is the spice of life, you know. Go ahead and have some fun. Buy a new bike. Buy a woman for a weekend. Then you can get back to your normal life with Marissa and the boys."

"It's not a midlife crisis." Shane didn't bother raising his voice loud enough to be heard. Vince would barge on until he'd said his piece. Better to just let him do it.

"Or is she going through that menopause? Your mother did."

God, no, not this part.

"Tell her to go fuck around for a bit until all those hormones are settled. Or go see a doctor. Does she go to a shrink? They've got pills for everything nowadays."

Shane breathed a soft sigh of relief. Maybe he wouldn't have to hear how his father had handled his mother's menopause after all.

"Not having trouble getting it up, are you?"

That was a new one. Shane's head fell forward and he looked to his father in horror. " _What_?"

"Your dick."

"Jesus," Shane hissed.

"It happens to a lot of men. Why—"

"Don't," Shane exploded, sitting straight up and throwing out both hands in surrender. "Please, don't." He didn't think he would be able to take it if Vince admitted to that particular problem himself, and what he'd done to solve it.

Vince glared, then set his cup down with a petulant pout. "Divorce," he muttered. "Still like each other. No cheating. No money problems. No abuse. And you're getting a goddamn divorce."

"Why are you so upset about it?" Shane asked quietly, getting to his feet. His father didn't answer immediately so he leaned forward, head tilting to one side. "Are you upset because you hate seeing a marriage fall apart? Or are you pissed because it's just one more thing that you can't control?"

"Shane," Vince barked when he'd pushed away and gotten halfway across the office.

Shane stopped, but didn't turn around. "Yes?"

"Make sure she doesn't get one fucking share of the stock."


	2. Chapter Two

**A/N: Thank you everyone for the kind reviews. :)**

Chapter Two

"What are you doing here?"

Cat was startled by the sudden question, not having heard the door open. Jumping, she turned in her chair, wincing when her knee banged into the side of the desk. She scooted the chair back, hand reaching to rub the stinging flesh, and looked to the source of her surprise. Shane was standing just inside the door, and for some reason her gaze settled on the snowflakes melting against his black coat.

"It's snowing?" she asked dumbly, looking to the windows. It had been overcast when she'd come in, and she hadn't yet opened the blinds.

"It was. What are you doing here? It's your day off."

"Um." She gave her knee another gentle rub and cleared her throat. "I thought I'd come in for a few hours to finish getting used to the place. And I remembered you had a few appointments this morning."

"Oh." He smoothed a hand over his bare head before shrugging out of his coat. "I just didn't expect to see you today."

While he hung his coat on one of the hooks by his office door she yanked up the hem of her skirt, biting her lip at the redness on her knee. She'd managed to scuff the skin where she'd banged. It would probably be a hideous bruise soon. Reaching for the tube of hand cream on the desk, she smoothed some over the scrape, then rubbed the remainder of the dollop into her hands. Looking up, she felt her face grow warm when she saw him watching her. Belatedly, she pulled her skirt down. "Coffee?" she offered, getting to her feet.

"I can get it," he said, waving for her to go back to what she was doing.

"Your father brought over your itinerary and the travel details for next week," she told him. "It's on your desk."

Shane looked up from pouring coffee into his cup. "So you met the old man?"

"He said it was sensitive material and wouldn't trust it in anyone's hands but his own." Cat bit her lip. "But yes, I met him."

"Everything is sensitive material that he doesn't want to trust in anyone's hands but his own," Shane muttered.

She opened her mouth to speak, then changed her mind and looked back to her desk. She didn't want to complain to her boss about his father. So she kept quiet, looking over her own travel details. Behind her, the blinds rattled, and she sensed the room get just a bit lighter.

"Still snowing," Shane announced. "But it won't last long, it's already above freezing. And it's going to warm up. It'll be probably mid-forties by lunchtime."

She smiled to herself. With his smooth voice, he almost sounded like a local weatherman. Suddenly, she pictured him standing in front of a map of the area, pointing out projected highs, and clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle the sudden laugh that bubbled up her throat.

"You okay?" he asked.

Cat nodded, swallowing another laugh, hating the choking sound she made. "I'm fine," she wheezed. "Just something in my throat."

"Do you need something to drink?" His voice held concern, and she turned to look at him. He was already pouring coffee into another cup. "Cream and sugar?"

She nodded. Then, horrifying herself, she blurted, "You sound like a weatherman."

He shook his head, lips quirking into a grin as he stirred her coffee. "I like to know what it's going to do. I spend a lot of time outside when I can."

That was obvious by the healthy tan he sported. The kind that didn't come from a bottle or UV lamps in a salon. "I'll call you for a report before packing for Detroit, then."

He actually laughed this time, and set the cup on the desk in front of her. "Just call me Al Roker."

"Careful, because I may just do that…" She lifted the cup and took a sip. He'd added a bit more cream than she preferred, but otherwise it was perfect. Aware that he was still standing over her, she took another sip, lifting an eyebrow when he reached past her to pick up her itinerary.

"I'll check mine, too, but I'm sure it's the same."

Cat smiled. She had supposed they would be traveling together. However… "Why am I on a private plane?"

"Because you're my assistant."

"You need assistance on a private flight?"

"Well." He leaned against the edge of the desk and shrugged. "You never know. Is there a problem with that?"

"No," she answered quickly. "I just assumed I would be on a regular flight. You know, crammed between a smelly man and a screaming kid."

"Nope, sorry, you're stuck with me," he sighed, eyes on the paper.

"You don't smell," she pointed out, then ducked her head to take a gulp of coffee. He was awfully close, and she was aware of it. Each breath she drew, she caught the scent of his cologne. She'd barely noticed it the day before. It was pleasant. Warm, a bit woodsy, with just a hint of spice. And was that Downy? Or Bounce? Whatever it was, it mingled with the cologne and added an undertone of freshness. She breathed in again, just to enjoy the aroma.

"Thanks. I try to take a shower once a month," he quipped.

"I didn't mean – You have – You smell nice," she attempted to explain, certain her face was crimson. "And you're not a screaming kid, either," she informed, needing to turn the conversation away from his smell.

"You haven't seen me on a plane yet." He glanced at her, and laughed when her eyes widened. "I'm kidding, Cat. I love flying. And I never scream."

"I don't love flying," she murmured, then finished her coffee. "But I never scream, either."

There was a brief silence, and she looked up from her empty cup to find him regarding her curiously. Then he blinked, got to his feet and set the paper back on her desk. "I'm going to go check what Dad brought over. What time is my first appointment?"

She knew that he knew perfectly well when his first appointment was. Grateful he was giving her an out, though, she looked to the computer. "Ten, with Mr. Calaway in Mr. McMahon's office. At eleven Media will be sending up the proofs from yesterday's photoshoot. Then you have lunch with Mrs. Levesque. I verified the reservation yesterday before leaving—"

"You can call her Stephanie. She's my sister."

"Oh." She should have known that.

"You haven't looked us up on the internet?" he asked. He was back at the window, sipping his coffee.

"I haven't really had a chance," she admitted. The past two nights she'd been online, but not to search him or the company. She'd been getting her bills paid, fearing that once she was traveling dates would slip her mind and she would end up accruing late fees. Despite her earlier joking with him, she had also been packing. Unpacking. Repacking. It was difficult to decide what to take, and she knew she would end up not bringing something she would need.

"You don't have to. You'll be meeting nearly everyone Monday. Don't worry, you'll know who they all are within a week or two." He turned to refill his coffee. "But here's a primer for you: Stephanie uses her maiden name on TV and on things pertaining to the company. She's married to Paul Levesque. He's better known to fans as Triple H. He runs the training division down in Florida, and he's in charge of live events. And he's the current champion."

"That's a primer?" Cat asked. "Sounds like a plot on…"

"On what?" Shane pressed when she looked away.

"On a soap opera," she muttered.

To her surprise, he appeared to take no offense. Chuckling, he raised his cup in salute. "Trust me, this company is a living soap opera."

"Really?"

"The storylines on TV can be a little over the top. They have to be, to pull in crowds. I mean, we had an elderly woman give birth to a hand once. Not to mention drunken Vegas weddings, crashing the ring with a beer truck, people joining the ass-kissing club, live sex celebrations..." He shrugged when she stared at him in awe. "All of that was a while ago, though. Now it's… It's authority figures holding down talented guys that the crowds love. It's women who want to be taken seriously given a spot on a reality show. It's the same people winning, and the same people losing."

There was an edge to his voice. Pressing her lips together, Cat tried to think of something profound to say. But all she could manage was, "That sounds… Sad."

"It's why I'm here." Shane finished his coffee and set the cup down. "Dad – Vince – asked me to come back. When I left a few years ago I saw the company heading in a direction that I didn't like, so I went off to do my own things. And… Well, he's getting to the age where he's ready to let some things go. He hasn't said it, but I think now he wants to be able to relax and spoil the grandkids."

Cat nodded, even though he couldn't see it. He was looking out the window again. The fitful snow had become steadily-falling flakes.

"He's ready for me to start taking over. Not just on TV, but here as well. It's been in the family for three generations now. I'm here to usher it through for the next generation. And for the one after."

"That's admirable," she said softly. He looked over his shoulder at her, and she stood to carry her empty cup to the coffeepot. "I mean, you coming back. You didn't have to, but you did. The company is your family's legacy. You wanting to preserve it for future generations is a good thing. And I'm sure you'll do wonderful things."

"I hope so," he whispered.

Not liking the sudden sadness that radiated from him, she moved to stand next to him. "After all," she continued, lifting her chin and giving her head a toss, "You hired me. That was definitely the first step in the right direction."

His shoulders began to shake. "It was?"

"Absolutely," she insisted. Gesturing to the scene outside, she sighed. "You can't even get the weather report right, how in the world can you take over a company without help?"

His sudden laugh chased away the earlier sadness. "Thanks for that." He rested his hand on her shoulder briefly, then stepped away. "I better go check the itinerary."

"I'm going to go check the weather," she announced with a smile.

"It's going to clear up!"

"Is that Shane-speak for blizzard?"

"You're killing me, Cat," he groaned. But he turned at the door so she could see his smile. "Let me know if it's going to get worse?"

"Will do." Pleased that the mood had lightened, she picked up the empty cups and carried them into the small restroom to rinse them in the sink. She thought she heard the outer door open and close while she had the water running, but there were no other sounds so she shrugged it off. The phone hadn't rung, so the Mr. Calaway expected at ten surely wasn't on his way up yet. With a glance at her watch she saw it was a quarter 'til now.

Exiting the restroom, she carried the cleaned mugs over to place them next to the coffeemaker. Satisfied, she returned to her desk. From Shane's office came muffled music. Turning her chair to reach the phone, she instead shrieked.

The man that stood in front of the desk was a good seven feet tall, expressionless, and sported a leather coat. His bare hands bore tattoos. A knit cap was pulled low on his head. As she reared back his dark eyebrows lifted, and one corner of his mouth twitched.

Hand over her heart, Cat could only stare at him. Shane's door opened, and she heard his concerned voice. Then he began to laugh. Horrified, she looked to him, watched as he rounded the desk to greet the behemoth with a hug. It was one of those manly hugs that started as a hand shake and ended with back slapping and grunted words. Shane knew him?

"Sorry I scared you," the tall man said, giving Cat a smile.

"Liar," Shane muttered. Then, turning to Cat, he smiled as well. "This is Mark Calaway. A longtime friend."

"I'm sorry I hollered," Cat murmured, wishing her heart would go back to its normal beating.

"My fault," Mark insisted. "I came in too quiet. I'll be sure to bang on the door next time."

"Don't listen to him. He likes scaring the piss out of unsuspecting people. Mark, this is Cat Watson, my personal assistant."

"Pleased to meet you," Cat said, surprised when he stepped over and held out a hand. She stood to greet him, squeaking when her hand disappeared in his.

"Alright, come on," Shane muttered when Mark bent to kiss her knuckles. "You're married."

Mark scowled in Shane's direction. "Married, yeah, but not blind."

Cat bit back a laugh and let her hand fall to her side. She had a feeling that the teasing came naturally to them. Especially when Shane snorted.

"Let's go see Dad," he said. He looked to Cat. "I'll probably go straight to lunch from there, so you can head out whenever you need to."

"Sure thing." There was nothing pressing at home that needed her attention, but she had finished up what she'd needed to do in the office. All that was left was setting up the voicemail for any calls that came through over the weekend and while they were in Michigan. Then she could spend the afternoon trying to figure out what to pack. Before he could head out, though, she called to him. "Do you have your phone?"

Shane made a show of patting his jeans, then pulled his phone out of his back pocket. "Yep."

"Great. Then I'll see you at the airport."

He and Mark left, and she slumped in her chair with a sigh. She needed to empty the coffeepot and wash it out. And give the philodendron a little water. It would probably be a good idea to dump the flowers in Shane's office and on her desk. But for the moment all she could do was sit and stare out the window. Slipping her feet out of her favorite black pumps, she wriggled her toes and reached for her phone to check the weather.

The snow was expected to last until lunchtime. She was just thinking she should send a text to Shane telling him so when she received one from him. Reading over the words, she smiled.

 _Be careful on the roads. They're probably a mess._

 _Thanks, I will. And the snow is lasting until about twelve. You be careful too._ She waited for the message to send, then tossed her phone onto the desk before rising to see to the coffeemaker.

* * *

The three faces were crammed together, each fighting for dominance on the screen, and Shane could only smile. He'd always loathed having to say goodbye before traveling for work. It seemed the loathing only grew with each passing year.

"Boys," he called softly, grateful he was alone in the airport's private lounge. "I need you guys to listen."

"We're listening!" Kenyon's voice was muffled.

"Be good for Mom," Shane instructed. "Things are crazy right now, so try not to add to her stress."

"We'll be good, Dad," Declan promised. He'd finally wrenched the phone from his brothers. Of the three, he was the one that best understood what was going on. "Can we watch you Monday night?"

"Yes, as long as Mom's okay with it. I'm hoping I'm on in the first hour, so you guys don't need to stay up too late." He rubbed his chin. "Kenny."

"I know." His middle child's head pushed in front of Declan's. "Study for the test and call you after school."

"And what else?"

Kenyon's face screwed up in thought. "And eat my vegetables," he grumbled.

"Rogan?"

His youngest got control of the phone for a moment. He was dressed for bed, hair still damp from his bath. "Don't pester my brothers." He gave Shane a thumbs up then added, "I won't. Much."

Shane chuckled. "I love you guys."

"Love you too!"

"Go to bed. I'll talk to you tomorrow." They exchanged more I-love-yous, then the boys struggled to be the one who ended the call. Clearing the screen, he sighed, about to put his phone away when he received a text from Marissa.

 _Text me when you get to Detroit. Safe travels._

Attached was a picture of the boys in a heap on the couch, each giving a thumbs up to the camera. Shane smiled and tucked the phone in his pocket.

The door to the lounge opened and he instinctively got to his feet when Cat entered. She was pulling a suitcase behind her and had a large bag hanging from her shoulder, but the first thing he noticed was that her hair was loose.

And she was wearing glasses.

"Hey," she greeted breathlessly when he met her halfway across the lounge. "I'm not late, am I?"

"Not at all." He reached to take the suitcase from her but she was already pushing it to rest near his. She dropped her bag and purse in an empty seat and began unbuttoning her coat.

"I called for a taxi and the driver was a complete moron. He drove me around the entire town. I'm sure he had no idea where he was going. And the heat wasn't working. It's freezing outside, and—" She cut off abruptly. "God, I'm sorry. It was my own fault, wasn't it? I should have just driven my own car and paid for parking here at the airport."

"You're fine," he promised. "Next week I'll pick you up, okay?"

"You don't have to—"

"I insist."

She gave a little shrug, which sent the gentle waves of her hair moving. A small smile touched her lips as she removed her coat and laid it over her purse. "Well, if you insist… Do I have time to go to the restroom?"

"The plane won't leave until we're ready to go," he pointed out.

"Really? I've never been on a private plane, so…" She rubbed her bare hands together then blew into them to generate heat. Looking around the lounge, her gaze landed on a door and she smiled. "Give me two minutes."

Five minutes later she exited the restroom. Having called the crew to load their things, Shane was watching the moving lights on the tarmac through the window. Turning when he heard her footsteps, he glanced down and saw she was wearing a pair of flats. She began rummaging through her purse so he allowed himself a moment to look at her, taking in the snug leggings and bulky blue sweater. Strange how much longer her legs looked in the close-fitting black leggings as opposed to the skirt she wore in the office. Realizing he was staring, he wet his lips and slowly looked away.

"I'm ready whenever you are," she told him. She had her coat on and was holding her purse and the large tote. He looked to her face, inanely noticing she'd glossed her lips.

He motioned to the door they had to go through and let her go first, catching a faint whiff of berries as she walked by. Following, he studiously ignored the way her hair bounced with each step. He introduced her to the pilot and co-pilot waiting outside the small plane, who promised they'd be off as soon as they got clearance.

"You okay?" he asked her once they'd boarded. The cabin was warm, and he removed his coat.

"Fine," she answered quickly, slowly placing her things in the nearest seat. She managed a brief smile. "I'm a nervous flyer. I always have been."

"It's just a couple hours," he tried to reassure her. "Do you want a drink to help you relax?"

"Thanks, but I'll be fine." She began to unbutton her coat and looked around the cabin. "This is nice. Almost like a little lounge."

He felt her start to relax once she'd chosen a seat. He noticed that she avoided sitting close to a window. And, feeling there was no need to sit far away from her, he took the seat next to her. The tote was in her lap and she was digging through it. The small table in front of them contained a neat row of things she had pulled out. The accoutrements he supposed most women needed on a flight. Gum, lip gloss, hand cream, tissues, lipstick… Even though he couldn't remember her wearing lipstick…

"Do you play cards?"

Surprised by the sudden question, Shane pulled his gaze from the table and nodded. "I try to play with the boys when I can. Why? Do you have a deck in there?"

Her cheeks tinged pink, she brought out a deck of playing cards and placed it on the table, then surprised him further by stacking three more decks atop it. Recognizing them from his sons' collection, he chuckled.

"My mom always has cards in her purse. She has as far back as I can remember." Cat began throwing the rest of her things back into her bag. "There's four of us, and if we got rowdy in the car she'd start up a game of Go Fish to keep us occupied. She told me a few years back that she used them to help us learn numbers, too. I don't have kids to keep occupied, but for some reason I always keep cards on me, too. Even if there's no one to play with. I'm always game for Solitaire."

"You have three brothers and sisters?" he asked, settling back in his seat.

"Three sisters," she corrected. "Uno or Rummy?"

He looked between the decks. How long had it been since he'd played cards with someone that wasn't a child? "Uno," he decided. "Are you the oldest?"

"I'm the baby." She tossed the playing cards into her tote then leaned to put the it in the seat across from them. "I was a surprise."

He opened his mouth to suggest that she still was a surprise, but stopped himself just in time. "How do you mean?"

"Oh, Mom thought she was done when Maggie turned six and no more babies had popped up. A few months later, she found out she was wrong." Handing the cards over to him to shuffle, she shifted in her seat, tucking one leg beneath her.

"Does your mother work?" He was curious. He realized how little he knew about her.

"She didn't until I went to college. Now she works part time at the little art gallery in town, and teaches beginner art classes a couple times a week."

"What about your father?" Shane straightened the deck and began to deal.

"He works with cars. Just a few years ago he opened his own shop. He rebuilds engines, does paint jobs, the works." She smiled while gathering her cards.

Shane couldn't imagine trying to raise four kids on one salary. Thinking of his privileged upbringing, he cleared his throat and waited for her to begin the play. "Where do they live?"

"Pennsylvania. In a little blue collar town… You know, they take in the sidewalks when it gets dark, that type of place." She tossed down a card. "It's only about an hour from Stamford, so I'm not too far from home."

"Do your sisters live close too" He wondered how many questions she would let him get away with. He was enjoying the exchange. Most of his life was readily available with a quick internet search. Whereas the only things he knew of her were what she'd provided on her résumé.

"They all live within a couple miles of the old homestead." She looked at the card he'd tossed down and made a sound of disgust, reaching to draw two from the deck.

How had she gotten out of the sleepy little town? Shane didn't ask, instead focusing on the game for a moment.

"You mentioned yesterday that you spend a lot of time outside." She regarded the cards in her hand, then dropped a green seven atop the wild card he'd played. "What kind of things do you do outside?"

"You name it, I probably do it." He glanced out the window and saw the lights of Stamford growing fainter beneath them. "Hiking, rock climbing, surfing… The boys and I like to play ball. And I go running every morning." He thought of his hectic week. "Well, nearly every morning."

"No golf or tennis?"

"Not for me. I play tennis once in a while with Declan. But I like getting dirty when I play." He threw down a card. "Uno."

"Yes, I can tell," she muttered, chewing on her lip as she studied the cards in her hand. He was pretty sure he heard her mutter a curse as she reached to draw a card, but her lips never moved.

Playing his last card, he beamed when she gathered up the cards to begin shuffling. "What about you?"

"What about me?" She set the cards down and reached to pull her hair back, securing it with an elastic band she'd had on her wrist.

"What do you do for fun?"

"Oh. Nothing as exciting as rock climbing and surfing…" She began to shuffle the cards. "I take pictures. Landscapes, interesting city scenes, that sort of thing. And I'm a sucker for a good shot of a sunrise or sunset. And I paint."

He was silent while she dealt, imagining her spreading white paint on a wall. "What kind of painting?"

"Oh, landscapes, city scenes. I've done a few sunrises. I paint from the pictures I take."

Now he imagined her standing in front of a canvas, paint smeared on her cheek as she studied her palette for just the right color. "That's amazing. Are you any good at it?"

She laughed. "You're the first person that's ever asked me that."

"It's a valid question. Especially since I've never seen your work." He picked up his cards, trying not to notice how her eyes sparkled from talking of what must be one of her greatest loves.

"I'm passable. My parents love my paintings, and that's all that matters." They played in silence, and this time she won. With a bright smile, she pushed the cards towards him.

He noticed she didn't offer to show him what she'd done with paint and canvas. "So you take pictures and paint. What else?"

"That's pretty much it. I read. I like doing cross stitch. I know, it sounds old-fashioned, but there's something rewarding about creating art with needle and thread." She gestured to her tote in the opposite chair, then reached to lightly rub at her earlobe. "I always keep a project with me. Mom taught me years ago. She taught all of us, but I was the only one who kept up with it."

"There's nothing wrong with doing something you enjoy," he commented softly. "Especially if you can share the enjoyment of it with someone you love."

She rubbed her earlobe again as they began to play. "Are you excited about Monday night?"

"Very." He wet his lips, eyes on his cards. Not sure yet if he should share his anxiety about his return to TV, he opened his mouth to speak, but she beat him to it.

"What's it like?" She threw down a card then looked at him. "I mean, going out in front of thousands of people, and knowing that a whole lot more are watching you on TV."

"It's… Surreal. I always tried to just worry about the crowd," he murmured. "But even that was surreal. There's several thousand people that spent money to come see something my dad created. And they either hate you or love you." Remembering that she wasn't a fan of the product, he pushed on. "You're either a bad guy or a good guy. The audience is supposed to hate the bad guys and love the good guys, but sometimes it's the other way around. Or they start out hating the bad guy but fall in love with him as he proves himself."

She nodded in understanding, but he could tell there were dozens more questions floating in her mind. She didn't ask them, though, and silence reigned as they continued playing. When he laid down the winning card she smiled ruefully, sitting back in her seat and rubbing her earlobe. "Good game."

He almost suggested another, but she lifted a hand to conceal a yawn. Straightening the cards and pushing them into the box, he settled back in his seat. Next to him, she shifted until she found a comfortable position, then grunted when he pointed to the buttons in the armrest that allowed her to recline. He chuckled apologetically while she adjusted her seat, laying his own back slightly.

Several moments passed. Hands tucked behind his head, he wondered if he should try catching a quick nap before landing. It wasn't until Cat turned in her seat and her head lolled against him that he realized she had fallen asleep. He waited for a moment, certain she would awaken and move away. She didn't, though, and he slowly lowered his arm so her head rested against his bicep instead of his elbow. When she didn't stir, he allowed himself to breathe a little easier.

She wasn't wearing perfume. With her so close, all he could smell was shampoo and soap. And berries. Sighing, he carefully removed her glasses and placed them on the table. She stirred at the movement, causing him to hold his breath, but she still didn't wake. Her hand moved to rest on his chest, as though to keep him still.

"Sorry," he whispered, the stupidity of speaking aloud making him shake his head. He would have gotten his phone and gone through some emails, but his arm was pinned to his side, blocking his phone.

Instead, he drummed the fingers of his free hand against his thigh. That did little to cure his need to do something, though, so he began to lightly tap his feet against the floor. He shifted, balanced one ankle on the opposite knee, then switched. When he'd been still for several moments, her earlier question echoed in his mind.

 _Are you excited about Monday night?_

If she only knew. Excited was just the tip of the iceberg. He looked forward to stepping out in front of a live crowd again. He looked forward to seeing old friends. He looked forward to meeting new faces. He didn't regret so much as a second of his time away, but he had missed the business. He'd missed the excitement, the unanticipated actions and reactions. He'd missed the adrenaline rush that hit him whenever he walked out of the curtain. Yes, he was excited.

But he was also scared to death.

What if they'd forgotten him? What if they resented him because he had walked out so many years ago? Would they cheer? Or would they boo him out of the arena? Would they even know who he was?

There was no one he could share his anxiety with. His father was in front of the crowd regularly. Not as much as he had been, but the fans sure as hell knew who he was. His sister and Paul were out every week. The others who he'd known and were still around were still recognizable, still beloved by fans. Mark, as the larger-than-life Undertaker, would be known to all fans for generations to come, despite his now limited schedule. Who was he, Shane, really, in the mix of things?

And yet, in spite of all the worries and fears, he was looking forward to it. No matter what reaction he got, he couldn't wait to feel whatever energy he received from the crowd. The time to return was now. His boys were old enough to enjoy seeing him on TV. At least, he hoped they would enjoy it…

He reached to touch the gold band on his left hand and sighed when his fingers met bare skin. He'd removed it that morning, after much hesitation, and he'd felt for it all day. He wondered how many days, weeks, months would pass before he didn't try to feel its weight.

Looking out the window, he saw the glitter of city lights below. Wispy clouds concealed them, and by the time the plane had passed through the clouds the lights had gone from his sight.

Much like his marriage, he thought. When he'd realized everything had changed, it had been too late to try to fix anything. He had tried, though, for a full year. Marissa had tried, too. But too much time had gone by. What had once been a marriage of passion and shared interests and unending love had become cold and stale. At first he had looked for one person or one thing to pin the blame on. Only to find that it was everyone and everything, yet no one and nothing.

The real bitch of it all was that they still loved each other. There was just no spark left, and no hopes of kick-starting one. They had been just going through the motions for… How long? Years. Not too many, though. He hoped he hadn't been blind to the fact for too long. It was bad enough he'd been blinded to it at all. An invisible wall had built itself between them during that time.

Whose idea had the divorce been? He honestly couldn't remember. Maybe it had been one of those few times in recent months that they'd been on the same page. He just remembered the lift of relief, and the chill of sadness. Twenty years gone in a second.

No, not gone. They were still there. He wasn't so jaded that he couldn't look back and remember the good things. Marissa had been a good wife to him, and an excellent mother to their three sons. The breakup of their marriage hadn't turned her into a vindictive woman. She wasn't suddenly a bitch that he couldn't stand. They still talked, they still had dinner a few times a week with the boys. They had mutually agreed already on the divorce settlement, child support, custody and visitation.

The upcoming lawyers' meeting was just a formality.

The meeting with their lawyers, the filing of all the papers, then the wait for a judge to review and hand down his or her decree. Provided Marissa didn't suddenly change her mind about their agreements, he wouldn't even have to go to court. Shane's lawyer had said it could take anywhere from one to three months. As though he were anxious to get it over with so he could move on to something else. Bill hadn't actually said the words, but he'd insinuated that Shane had to have someone waiting in the wings.

Shane had almost laughed in his face. He hadn't been able to keep one woman happy, why in the world would he try with another one?

Besides, he thought in a rare moment of gloominess, who would even want him?


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

She was used to walking from her office to another office and back again during work hours. So she had never had trouble with wearing high heels. Aside from her indulging in antiques occasionally, heels were Cat's only splurge. She'd had a certain image to uphold, what with living and working in Manhattan. She was a pro at wearing the shoes that made her a little taller.

Or so she'd thought.

Three hours after arriving at the arena in Detroit, her feet were screaming for reprieve. Crisscrossing the network of cement-floored hallways had wreaked havoc on her toes and arches. Her once-beloved black pumps were now a source of torture. She soldiered through, though, mainly because she had no other choice. It was either tough it out or walk barefoot.

She looked down at the floor and wrinkled her nose. Definitely tough it out.

Ducking around a pair of muscular men that were talking softly to each other, she squeaked when a hand landed on her arm.

"Why the rush, sweetheart?"

Cat looked to the source of the hand and unconsciously took a step back. Shaggy light brown curls sprang from beneath a black and white trucker's cap. A pair of blue eyes peered at her from the shadow of the brim. His mouth was tilted in a smile, and a toothpick dangled at one corner. Despite the added height of her shoes, he had to look down at her, and not for the first time that day she cursed the genes that made her short.

"You're a new face," the man said with a quick grin at his companion. "You seen her before?"

"Nah, man, she's definitely new." The other man was a little burlier, with olive-toned skin and a broad smile.

"And I'm also definitely busy," Cat informed, lightly shaking her arm so the hand would fall away. It did and she sighed, edging out of his reach. Then, not wanting to potentially insult someone important within the company, she flashed a quick smile. "Sorry. Excuse me."

"We'll see you around!" he promised as she darted down the corridor.

She ignored him, instead focusing on reaching Shane's dressing room without getting turned around and on the opposite side of the backstage area. She'd already done that twice. Each time, she had apologized profusely, but Shane had waved off the explanation, saying he understood the hallways could be a labyrinth.

Her fingers rapped on the door twice before she turned the knob. The door had a sheet of white paper with the word 'Private' printed on it in bold. Shane had explained that his return was to be a surprise and as such, he was tucked in a room far away from the busier areas. And it was her job to hurry back and forth when his father or sister had some new piece of paperwork for him to look over, or a newly revised script for his segment to memorize.

He was standing in front of the mirror, holding two ties in front of him. Glancing over when she entered, he alternately rose both ties. "Which one?"

Cat blinked, attempting to wriggle her toes inside her pumps. "What color is your jacket?" she asked, already looking to where it hung on a hook next to the mirror. "White shirt?"

"White shirt," he confirmed. "And jeans."

"I'd skip the tie," she decided. "What shoes are you wearing?"

Shane's eyebrows rose and he theatrically turned his head in the direction of the leather couch. "I haven't decided."

Cat almost snorted as she looked to the four shoeboxes lined across the back of the couch. "How many pairs do you own?" she asked, taking the ties when he set them down and crossing to lay them in his suitcase.

"Would you think less of me if I said I really don't know?" He pushed up the sleeves of his henley and flopped down onto the couch. At her horrified glance, he chuckled. "I've been buying them for over twenty years. It's an addiction, Cat."

Thinking of her old bedroom at her parents' home, which was filled almost to bursting with antiques she had impulsively purchased over the years, she nodded. But she did know how many antiques she'd purchased. They were waiting there for her, waiting for the home she eventually hoped to buy. Tables. Knickknacks. Chairs. A lovely bedstead that dated back to the eighteenth century. Even a small chest with fine and costume jewelry. She didn't have enough to fill a home yet, but once she had one she would go out and buy more. Then she thought of the expensive shoes that were stuffed in the closet of her apartment in Stamford. Nodding again, she settled on the opposite end of the couch.

"What did Vince say?"

She paused, wanting to make sure she could repeat the words verbatim. "He said, quote: 'I don't know why the hell he has to say that shit but, Goddamnit, I do like how it sounds. Tell him no more revisions. And you better be making damned sure that no one knows who you're working for.' End quote."

"He didn't upset you, did he?"

"I've heard worse, trust me," she assured. "Besides, he wants to keep your being here a surprise. He went on that tangent about 'fucking social media' and 'bastards leaking shit worse than a baby with diarrhea' when I went earlier… Does he really hate social media?"

"It's a love-hate relationship. He loves it when it's creating a buzz. He's like a kid with a new toy at Christmas when something is trending on Twitter. But when a surprise is planned and it gets spoiled because someone accidentally posts a backstage picture or lets it slip in a comment, he turns into a kid with a new toy that just broke."

Cat was quiet for a moment, mentally picturing Vince McMahon as a screaming toddler. The image was more than horrifying, because in her mind he was just a miniature version of the man she had just seen. Complete with gray pinstripe suit and starched collar and cuffs. Biting back a laugh, she tried wriggling her toes again.

"Did you see Steph?" Shane was up again, and she mused that he rarely kept still.

"She said the talent meeting will be at five, and suggested I get your dinner from Catering then."

"Next week you won't have to do so much running," he promised. He looked pointedly at her feet, which she had lifted off the floor. "I'm sure your feet will thank me."

"They're fine," she defended, lowering them to the floor. Then, needing to relieve some of the pressure, she lifted them again and slowly rotated her ankles.

"You're going to break your neck."

Shooting him a glance when she caught the singsong tone, she shook her head defiantly. "I'm fine," she insisted. "I'm still getting used to being on my feet for so long."

"Still…" His face conveyed that he was certain he'd be saying 'I told you so' before long. But he looked to his watch and rolled his shoulders. "Did you have fun exploring yesterday?"

Cat was surprised by the sudden change in topic. She smiled, though, and nodded. "I did. I've never been here before. Thanks for letting me have a few hours off."

"I hardly needed you. Besides, you worked Friday morning," he reminded her. As though he couldn't fathom not giving her the time to herself. "What did you do?"

"Wandered around, mostly. I took tons of pictures. Then I ended up at the Institute of the Arts and had to be hustled out at closing time…" She crossed her legs, hoping her disappointment didn't show. "They had an exhibit on Detroit weather. It was a film of stills taken every day for a full year and showed weather patterns. Gorgeous shots of rain and snow, and simply amazing clouds. And there was a special exhibition put together by an auxiliary group, showing the items they've collected. It – Sorry. I'm blathering."

"No," he disagreed, taking a seat again. "You had fun. Talking about something you love isn't blathering. Do I get to see the pictures you took?"

"You want to?" she asked.

"I was in a long meeting with Dad, Steph, and Paul. I didn't get to explore. Yes, I want to see."

"I haven't gone through all of them yet," she attempted to explain while leaning to retrieve her iPad from her tote. "So I'm sure there are some that I won't keep."

"Do you delete a lot?"

She thought for a moment while unlocking her iPad and pulling up the album of photos she'd taken the day before. "I suppose it depends on the subject. I always take more pictures than necessary, just in case. And then I only keep what I think are the best ones."

Shane nodded in understanding. He took the iPad when she held it out. Propping one ankle on the opposite knee, he balanced the device against his thigh.

For some reason, she was anxious for his opinion. He kept silent, increasing her anxiety, and slowly swiped from photo to photo. Maybe she shouldn't have shown him. After all, there were a lot of photos that probably only appealed to her. And when she was in an urban area with her camera, she tended to lean towards more abstract photography. As opposed to rural scenes, when she tried to get as much of the view as possible in the frame, she instead focused on the lines of buildings. The pattern of a wrought iron fence. Motion shots of traffic or people.

He didn't like them. She could tell. His hand was lightly cupped over his mouth and chin – to conceal the disgust? – and he seemed to look at each photo longer than necessary. Occasionally he would lift the tablet so he could study a photo closely, then would set it down without any outward sign of his reaction.

She began to fidget. Her fingers began to drum on the arm of the couch, so she folded her arms over her chest. Then her foot started tapping against the gray carpet. Uncrossing and re-crossing her legs, she chewed on her bottom lip. She was going to scream if he didn't say something soon—

"You're very talented."

Gulping back sigh, Cat coughed and whirled to face him. "What?"

"You're talented." He'd lowered his hand from his face, and was smiling. "I know people who would pay good money to have some of these hanging in their homes."

"You're just saying that," she muttered, even as her body flushed with the warmth of praise. "Thank you."

"You paint from these, right?" he asked, continuing to swipe through the photos.

"Not all of them. When I get a chance to go through them, I'll see if there are any I think will transfer well to a canvas." Still feeling the need to fidget, she rose and moved over to the small table in the corner, where she'd left her bottle of water. She took a sip, wincing as her toes began to scream once more.

"They're really good," Shane said. "You should be proud of these."

"Thank you," she said softly, inordinately pleased that he enjoyed them. Even though she took the photos for herself, knowing that someone else appreciated them made the time spent looking for interesting subjects worth it.

He set the iPad aside and leaned his head back, sighing towards the ceiling. "I really want to get out of this room."

"Do you want me to see if there's another room you can go to?" she offered. "A different set of four walls might do you good."

He sent her a disgruntled look, then stood. "Sorry. I'm not used to being locked in a room."

"Weren't you ever grounded?" she asked.

"Only if I got caught," he muttered. Then, looking sheepish, he added, "I mean, yeah, I was. But it was different."

"You need something to keep you occupied," she surmised, looking around the room. There was nothing. Not even a TV. She had seen several monitors set up backstage, which Stephanie had told her would give talent backstage the opportunity to see what was happening in the arena, but not one in here. Shane had done a bit of work on his laptop earlier, and now it was packed away. She had yet to see him pull out his phone for a game of Angry Birds or Crossy Road, and she suddenly wondered if he even had games on his phone. Then, recalling that he'd seemed to enjoy playing cards, she turned to him and smiled. "How about a quick game before I go get your dinner?"

"Only if you promise not to fall asleep on me again."

Her cheeks heated. It had been late, and she'd had little sleep the night before. She hadn't intended to fall asleep, and she certainly hadn't meant to literally sleep _on_ him. When she'd awakened to find her head on his shoulder she'd been horrified, and a little surprised he hadn't nudged her away. Still able to feel the softness of his sweater against her cheek, she moistened her lips and reached for her tote. "Trust me, that won't happen again."

They returned to the couch, and she tucked one leg beneath her to face him, grateful she'd chosen slacks instead of a skirt. She handed the cards over to him to shuffle and deal, idly watching his fingers word. The watch on his wrist caught the light and glinted.

"Are you nervous?" she questioned suddenly when he began to deal. At the outburst, his hand jerked and sent a card over her head. She watched it arc, then twisted to see it land on the floor behind her. Deciding to leave it there for the time being, she turned back around. "Sorry."

"No, my fault. And yeah, I'm a little nervous. It's been a while." He paused, waiting until the cards had been dealt and she was organizing her hand before continuing. "You never know what the reaction from the crowd will be. Especially right now, when Dad, Steph, and Paul are seen as the bad guys. They might see me coming out and think 'oh shit, another one to ruin everything.'"

"Bad guys are heels, right?" When he nodded, she thought the moniker fitting. Especially now, when her own heels had done nothing but create trauma for her all day. "And the good guys are…"

"Faces. Babyfaces." He smiled, motioning for her to begin the game. "You'll get the hang of it soon. Draw two."

"Son of a…" Biting her lip before she could finish the statement, she grabbed two cards from the deck to the sound of his laughter. "You know, you only won the other night because I was sleepy."

"Oh?" he challenged.

"Oh, yes. I'll have you know that I was the Uno champion for three semesters at NYU." Frowning because she didn't have a card to play, she drew one from the deck.

"Is that so? Did you get a shiny medal?"

"No…" She trailed, looking thoughtfully at her cards when he played a red nine. Then, in quick succession, she played four in a row. "Skip you, reverse back to me, draw two, draw four, and I choose blue."

"Son of a…"

She waited for him to catch up, smiling sweetly, then played her one blue card, a two. "Uno."

"What does the NYU Uno champion get?" he inquired, dropping a green two onto the discard pile.

"Fame… Glory…" She pinched her lips together and drew a card from the deck. Blue again.

"Who usurped your throne?"

"I was forced to abdicate due to graduation."

"Ah. That's a shame."

"A shame?" she echoed.

"Yep." He dropped a green skip card, then a yellow one. Followed by another one, then two reverses. Three cards were left in his hand, and he stroked his chin thoughtfully. A draw two card came next, then another, and he sighed, "Uno."

"Oh you're going down," she warned when he played his last card.

"I doubt it." He sat back, reveling in his victory.

She scoffed, reaching to gather all the cards. Then she smiled. "Do you play with your sons?"

"It's their favorite game. Rogan's still so young he just throws cards down, but Kenny and Declan are very good. I'm sure Declan will be whipping my butt before too long." Shane looked to his watch and sighed.

"Declan's the oldest, right?" She could tell he wanted to call and check on his sons. He'd mentioned wanting to do so earlier, then had said they were in karate class until six.

"He just turned twelve. Kenny will be ten in a month, and Rogan just turned six."

"Three boys," she murmured with a shake of her head.

"Stephanie and Paul have three girls. Marissa and I had three boys."

Had? Was his wife dead? No, she was certain he'd referred to Marissa in the present tense before. Then… Mentally shrugging away the questions, she smiled at him. "It's sweet how that turned out."

"Mom loves it. If she wants sweetness and light she asks the boys up for a weekend. If she wants hell and damnation, she asks for my nieces."

Cat snorted on a laugh. "That's terrible. I'm sure they can't be that bad."

"Just wait. When school lets out in the summer and Steph brings them on the road…" He cringed. "My boys will be angels in comparison."

"Are they like you?"

"If you listen to their mother, one hundred percent."

"Well, then, I'm sure they're little devils," she decided.

There was a tap on the door as Shane began to laugh. Cat pushed the shuffled cards into his hands and went to answer the knock. Stephanie stood in the hall, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Just stopping by to say hi," she explained as she entered the room. Looking to her brother, she smiled. "It's been ages since I heard you laugh like that."

He composed himself, leaning to place the cards on the table. "Cat called the boys little devils."

Stephanie looked to Cat, eyes full of question, but all Cat could do was shrug. The statuesque woman crossed the room and sank onto the couch. "Have you met my nephews, Miss Watson?"

"No," Cat answered. "But Shane said they're exactly like him…"

Stephanie laughed. Patting her brother on the arm, she grinned. "I like her."

"Sorry, I got her first." Shane stretched his arms above his head. "Dad hasn't changed his mind about the time has he?"

"No. He can't, because we've put it out that he'll be giving the award when the show starts."

Cat perched on the armchair across from the couch. She tried not to goggle when Stephanie crossed her legs, but she couldn't help but watch. They were long, as elegant as any Cat had ever seen. They matched the rest of her body, which was in superb shape. Feeling almost dumpy in her slacks and blue top, she fiddled with her watchband while the siblings went over the finer points of what would be said when they were out in the arena.

"Have you shown Cat the ring?" Stephanie asked.

Cat looked up from her wrist to see Shane shaking his head. "I haven't been allowed to leave this room since I got here, Steph."

Stephanie turned her warm eyes on Cat. "Would you like to see the ring?"

"I would," Cat admitted, looking to Shane. "You don't mind?"

"Not at all. Because I'm going with you."

"No you're not!" Stephanie's voice came out as a commanding bark. Cat imagined that she was able to keep her three daughters well in line.

"Yes, I am," Shane insisted. "No one will even notice me."

Stephanie looked wary. "If Dad finds out—"

"It was all my idea."

Cat wondered if he had talked his sister into doing things that would possibly get her into trouble when they were younger. Stephanie rose, shaking her head, muttering that some things never changed. Standing as well, Cat watched while the other woman opened the door and peered outside. She turned to look at Shane. "If this will get either of you into trouble—"

"Don't worry about it. With her leading the way, nobody's going to give me a second glance."

"You're so going to end up getting grounded," Cat couldn't help but mutter, relieved when he chuckled.

"Alright, come on. It's almost five, so everyone should be going to the talent meeting with Dad and Paul." Stephanie had her phone out and was texting. "I'm letting Paul know I'll be late."

"I'm right behind you, sis."

Cat followed along. She opened her mouth several times to insist they didn't have to go to so much trouble just for her, but each time one of them spoke, cutting her off before she could draw a breath. It was almost comical, how at each corner Stephanie glanced about to see that no one was around. Hurrying to keep up with their longer strides, Cat made a mental note to start wearing her comfortable flats on future Mondays.

They passed through a large area that was sectioned off, and Cat saw women spreading out makeup tools on a long table. In the next section a woman sat in front of a sewing machine, head bent as she worked on something made of bright blue fabric. Then came a portion that was curtained off completely, one curtain held back to reveal a red cubicle. A man in black jeans and a t-shirt was hanging a framed poster on one wall. She saw a corridor leading off to the right and saw the signs announcing that Catering was to the right. And, curiously, a sign with a caricature of a gorilla pointed straight ahead.

A low ramp led up into an area devoid of decoration. There was a bank of small monitors, each with a headset resting in front of it, and two large tubs that a woman was filling with bottled water. On the opposite side was another monitor and headset, and the chair in front of them was labeled 'Vince'. A technician was attaching wires. Instead of an open doorway there was a spit curtain.

"Gorilla position," Shane explained softly. "I'll tell you the story later. But this is where talent goes out onto the stage, and where they come through after matches."

Cat nodded, and when Stephanie held back the curtain and motioned for her to go out first, she stepped through. She followed a path marked off with tape, and found herself stepping in front a curved panel of screens that glowed in shades of blue. Eyes widening as she rounded and saw another panel, and a larger screen above where she'd stepped out, she slowed to a stop. She barely noticed the ramp leading down or the lane leading to the ring in the center of the ring. Instead, she was momentarily struck by the spectacle that was the entrance area.

"When talent comes out, the screens change and show their name and whatever the main colors of their theme package are. Up there the package shows."

"Package?" Cat asked dumbly, still awed. It was a world of difference from what she remembered seeing as a child.

"Hold on." Stephanie had her phone out and was lifting it to her ear. After a few seconds, she smiled. "Play my entrance real quick? Yes, screen and audio. Thanks." She lowered the phone.

Two seconds later, music filled the arena, and the screens shifted from blues to a gridline of white against black. Stephanie's name appeared on the bottom front panel, and on the large screen above a video began to play. Cat watched, aware of how many man hours had to have gone into achieving something so spectacular, then looked to Shane. "You have one, too?"

"Everyone does. Mine's better than Steph's though," he added in a stage whisper. "Come on."

Smiling as brother and sister playfully bickered their way down the ramp, she followed at a slower pace. It was impossible for her to imagine making such a grand entrance in front of a full house. The rows of seats on either side were closer than most front-row seats at concerts she'd attended. The lane entered a squared-off section around the ring, the floor covered in a thin black rubber matting. Taking in the size of the ring, she wondered why it had seemed so much larger when she'd watched it as a child. Stepping forward, she noted that the base was chest-high for her.

Shane bounded up the steel steps at the corner, stepping between the ropes with an ease that belied his years away. In the center, he looked larger than life, and suddenly she was positive that the crowd would welcome him with open arms. How could they not?

"Dad needs me at the meeting," Stephanie announced. Despite not being in the ring, she leveled her brother with a quick look. "Don't stay out here too long."

"Five minutes, tops," Shane promised. His eyes followed his sister's progress up the ramp, then he grinned down at Cat. "Come on."

Carefully going up the steps, she eyed the ropes warily. "Um…"

He laughed and stepped over to push the top rope over. "Bend over and step in one leg at the time."

She did so, bouncing awkwardly on her right foot when her left heel caught the rope. Shaking her leg to free it, she lurched sideways, catching the middle rope before she could fall. The floor – was it called the floor? – of the ring seemed to roll with each step she took, and when Shane began jogging in place she felt her stomach dip. She was reminded of the carnival attraction that her older sisters had loved above all others. She couldn't remember the name of it, but she remembered the floor that moved with hills and valleys. She had never been able to remain standing while crossing to the opposite side, and vividly recalled throwing up the cotton candy and funnel cake she'd eaten. Right on Maggie's new shoes…

Shane appeared to sense her discomfort and smiled slightly. "You get used to it."

"Somehow I doubt that," she murmured, making her way across the ring. The corner posts seemed secure, and each corner of the ropes was concealed by a black sash bearing the company's logo. "Is the table for the announcers?"

"Commentators," he corrected. "That chair there is where the ring announcer sits. And that's the timekeeper's corner." Moving to stand next to her, he pointed to where a portion of seating had been cordoned off. "Light and sound techs are up there."

"It's so much," she murmured. "And you do non-televised shows on weekends?"

"Yeah. Plus tomorrow night is the Smackdown taping. It's aired on Thursday nights."

"Wow," she breathed.

"In a couple hours the seats will be filling up, and there will be a match or two to get the crowd pumped. Then at eight Eastern, the show will start. Dad will come out first, then Stephanie."

"Then you."

"Then me," he whispered.

She looked at him and saw the brief expression of trepidation cross his face. "Don't worry," she said softly. "I'm sure a dozen or so people will remember who you are and give you some pity applause."

"Ouch." He clapped a hand over his heart. "You do wonders for a man's ego, Cat."

"Hey, I'm just here to assist you. Brown-nosing wasn't in the job description." When he scoffed and reached to hold the rope up for her, she stepped through, this time managing to do so without incident, and slowly edged along the side until she reached the steps.

"Are you sure? I'm positive I penciled that in."

She watched as he easily stepped between the ropes and jumped down. "Nope, it wasn't there," she assured, rounding the ring to head back up the ramp. "Do you want me to go get your dinner and you head back to the dressing room?"

"Works for me. Get something for yourself, too." Once on the stage, he motioned for her to go first, and she glanced over her shoulder to see him gazing out at the arena. When he caught her looking, he smiled. "A dozen or so, huh?"

"No more than thirty, I'd say. And if I'm wrong…" She faltered. She had nothing to wager. Nothing that he would want, at least.

"If you're wrong?"

"If I'm wrong," she began again, toes squirming inside the shoes from hell. "I honestly don't know."

"How about you stop wearing heels?" he suggested. "If you're wrong, of course."

"What?" she squeaked. "I'm not wagering that!"

"Scared you'll lose?" he challenged.

"Please," she scoffed, even though she was certain she would lose. "Can't we just bet money?"

He seemed to consider the suggestion. "Hmm… No, I've got plenty to see me through. So, heels?"

"I am perfectly capable of doing my job in these shoes," she insisted, even as the arch of her left foot tightened in the beginnings of a cramp. She narrowed her eyes at his back. She didn't believe in black magic usually, but she wouldn't put it past the man to attempt some to prove his point. Moving after him, she looked for the exit of the – what was it? Gorilla? – room and headed in that direction, refusing to show her pain. She'd forgotten the ramp, though. One heel caught in the overlap and, squeaking in surprise, she pitched forward.

A pair of strong hands caught her before she could plant her face on the floor. One stayed on her, warm and sure at her side, while the other reached to free her heel. Slowly, Shane guided her into an upright position as he straightened in front of her. His eyes showing concern, he kept his hand in place, lips turning down in a small frown. "Alright?" he asked gently.

"I'm fine," she whispered, releasing her breath slowly. "Thank you."

"You sure?"

Smiling at his worry, she nodded. "Promise."

"Care to place that wager now?"

What wager? She gazed up at him, growing aware of the heat of his hand on her side. His palm was practically burning against her… She blinked, realizing it rested neatly against her breast. He seemed to realize it at the same moment, and she thought she saw his cheeks darken as his hand fell away. A muttered apology passed his lips. Brushing her hands against the front of her slacks, she caught up with his question and nodded. "If more than thirty people cheer for you, I'll stop wearing heels."

"And if thirty or fewer do, I'll stop bitching at you about them." He held out his hand, the same one that had just caught her. "Deal?"

"Deal," she agreed, giving his hand a quick shake.

* * *

Stepping through the curtain, Shane released his breath in a rush. He handed the microphone over and was surprised to see his fingers were shaking. He smoothed them over his head, the crowd's enthusiastic cheers still ringing in his ears. Taking the bottle of water that was offered, he grinned when familiar faces began to approach.

Elated. The high he'd gotten as soon as the audience reacted to his theme was still there. Being greeted and welcomed back only enhanced the excitement, and it was several moments before he could make his way out of Gorilla. There he saw Cat, waiting in a chair near one of the monitors.

She stood, and he saw her smile as he approached. It wasn't until he was a few feet away he saw she notebook and pen in her hand. Holding up the notebook and giving it a small shake, she stepped forward. "Just a few things."

"Okay." He took a sip of water, glancing to the hastily-scrawled words on the page.

"One, that was a few more than thirty." She rocked back on her feet.

"Just a few," he agreed with a chuckle. "Two?"

"Two, you were out there for, what, fifteen minutes? Five minutes in people were calling to get you for an interview. I finally told PR to just give everyone my number." Her nose wrinkled, and he wondered if she regretted that decision. "I told them all that we'd get in touch with them tomorrow."

"Works for me." They'd started walking towards the dressing room.

"Three, Media needs your final approval on the proofs. They want them on the website before the show ends. Oh, and your sons called." She pulled a phone out of the pocket of her slacks. His phone, he realized when she handed it over. He remembered leaving it in the dressing room when it had been time to go out. "They left a voicemail."

He looked down at the screen as it lit up with a text from Declan. Smiling, he read the words of excitement then replied, promising he'd call in a few minutes. "Anything else?"

"That's it. I'll get the proofs pulled up on your laptop. The social team wants you to get Twitter and Instagram. They've already put up a Facebook page for me. If you're okay with it, I'll put them together while you approve the shots."

"First things first." He pushed the door open and motioned her ahead of him. Once it had snapped closed behind them, he pointed to her feet. "Take them off."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The shoes." He held up a hand before she could protest, then shrugged out of his jacket. "You can wear them when we leave, but after tonight I never want to see them again."

"Tyrant," she muttered as she sat and reached down to remove the shoes.

Shane looked at her bared feet, wondering why the blue polish on her toenails amused him. Probably because it was so unexpected. He would have marked her as the type to not wear polish. Giving his head a small shake, he looked away and unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt to roll the sleeves back. After he'd called to talk to his sons, he turned back to see she had his laptop open on the table. "How many do I need to approve?"

She stepped aside, idly tapping her pen against her thigh. "Three. Just reply to the email with the numbers and they'll take it from there. Did you want me to set up the social media accounts?"

"I suppose so." He unlocked his phone and handed it over. "Put them on here. And give yourself access to them in case I need you to post something?"

"Sure." She sat across from him and spread their phones and her iPad in front of her. Just as he began looking at the photos from Media, she cleared her throat and held out his phone so he could approve the app downloads.

It didn't take long for him to choose the photos. They all looked the same to him, so he sent off his approval within moments. Then, curious, he opened up the company's website. By the time he'd navigated to his own profile, the photos had been uploaded.

"All set," Cat announced, setting his phone next to him. "Are you going to tweet now?"

"Soon. I have to think of the right words."

"You don't want to go with 'my nipples are hard' again?"

He rolled his eyes, lips twitching. "They were."

"You could post a pic of them," she suggested.

"I'd like to keep my nipples to myself, if you don't mind."

"Was anything else hard?"

The question was asked so quietly that he was certain he'd dreamed it. Slowly raising his head, he saw her cheeks go pale then dark crimson as she realized she'd spoken aloud. Eyes widening, she raised a hand to cover her mouth. As though by doing so she could take the words back.

And, for reasons he couldn't understand, he had to increase her torment. "Well," he began, spreading his arms and letting his hands fall into his lap. "I wouldn't say it was _hard_. Half-mast. Yeah, we'll go with that. If I'd stayed out there longer I would have gotten farther than a little chub, but—"

"Stop," she wheezed.

He froze, fearing he'd taken it too far. Her shoulders were shaking, and when she lowered her hand he saw she was laughing. "Hey," he defended with a shrug. "You asked."

"I didn't mean to." She had a tissue in her hand and dabbed her eyes with it. "And you didn't have to answer."

Opening his mouth to apologize, he instead watched her compose herself. Her cheeks were still flushed. A lock of hair had fallen from her ponytail and bounced against one rosy cheek. She brushed it back, watchband catching the light. Her tongue swept over her bottom lip as their eyes met. And his breath caught.

Then she caught her bottom lip between her teeth.

Damn, he thought, unable to do anything but stare at her. Unbidden, he remembered the feel of her breast against his palm. That, added to the things she kept doing to her lip, and the fact that he'd gone way too long without any sort of intimacy, as well her all but outright asking him if he'd gotten a hard-on while out in the arena, caused him to grow overly warm. Knowing he should look away but unable too, he watched her teeth slide across her lip and felt all his blood flow south. Because, suddenly, he could think of a thousand better things she could do with her lips.

She cleared her throat, ducked her head, and he let his breath out slowly. He needed to think unsexy thoughts. Math. Baseball. Anything. State capitals!

 _Alabama – Montgomery. Alaska – Juneau. Arizona – Phoenix. Arkansas – Little Rock—_

"Anyway," she said with a breezy sigh. When he glanced up from the keyboard of his laptop she was shaking her head. Expression turning serious, she tucked that lock of hair firmly behind her ear. "I'm guessing WrestleMania is a huge deal?"

"It's our Super Bowl," he confirmed.

"And Hell in a Cell is huge, too?"

"Yep."

"And this Undertaker guy?"

"Legendary. You met him last week. Mark."

She blinked. "And you're going to be getting into this Hell in a Cell with Mark. At WrestleMania."

"That's the plan." Looking to the screen of his laptop, he lightly drummed his fingers against the table. Then, mind made up, he opened a new webpage.

"You're really going to have a match?"

She sounded so incredulous that Shane had to chuckle. It was either find humor in her disbelief or become defensive. Flashing her a quick grin, he began navigating the page. "Yes, I am."

"Are you insane? Aren't you… I mean it's been…" Her face screwed up in thought.

"About seven years." He looked up. "And don't even _think_ of saying I'm getting too old."

"I wouldn't dream of it," she said pertly.

Shane snorted. Somehow he doubted that.

"What's Hell in a Cell?" she asked a moment later.

He tended to forget that she knew little more than nothing about wrestling. "It's like a regular match, except there's a steel cage that encloses the ring. There's a roof on top. No disqualifications, so the competitors can fight dirty. And the only way to win is by pinfall or submission."

Cat looked to him, lips parting with an obvious question.

"Pinfall is the old one, two, three," he explained, smiling when she nodded. "And submission is making your opponent tap out because they can't take it anymore. You wrangle them into a spot they can't get out of that causes them pain, and they have to submit."

"Oh." She was silent for several long moments.

"You really need to do your homework," he suggested.

"Is there a 'Wrestling for Dummies' book?" she asked.

"There probably is. But you're not a dummy. You'll pick it up easily. If nothing else just reading a few Wikipedia pages will give you some basic knowledge."

"I feel like a dummy. I have no idea who Vincent J. McMahon was—"

"My grandfather."

"Oh. Anyway, I've got a lot to learn. Running back and forth today I met a thousand people, and I couldn't tell you who they were."

"Again, you'll pick it up. What's your favorite color?"

She jerked her head up at the sudden question, then her shoulders lifted in a quick shrug. "I don't really have one."

"Just curious," he murmured.

"Oh. What's yours?"

"Same as yours," he answered with a chuckle. Finally he made a selection, then inwardly groaned. How the hell was he supposed to… Sighing, he stretched out one leg. His foot brushed against something and, looking down, he saw it was her discarded shoes. Seeing that she was busy with something on her iPad, he dragged one of the shoes closer with his foot. He stretched, eyes on the inside of the black heeled shoe, then sat up with a small smile.

"Social team got you verified," she announced.

Nodding, he quickly typed in the comment box at the bottom of the webpage, half-afraid she would get to her feet and see what he was doing before he finished. She didn't though. She was on her phone. Copying her notes, if the way she kept pausing to look down was any indication. Mission completed, he exited the browser and closed the laptop, breathing a small sigh of relief that she was unaware of what he had done.

"I'll email you this list of people and media outlets that want a quick interview. From what PR said, you have the final word," she said. Standing, she leaned her head from one side to the other, then set her phone down.

Almost instantly his own phone vibrated with an incoming email. He'd look at it later. It wasn't as though a decision had to be made immediately. Watching her stretch her arms above her head, he saw a peek of creamy skin between the hem of her shirt and her pants. _California – Sacramento_. He wet his lips and hopped to his feet, stumbling slightly when one foot tangled with her shoes. "I've got to go meet with Dad," he blurted, pushing the chair up to the table. She paused mid-stretch, eyes widening at his outburst. "Just a quickie – I mean a quick meeting. I'll be back in ten, fifteen minutes."

"Okay. Do you want me to get your stuff packed?"

"That would be great. Unless something comes up, I'm hoping we'll be able to get out of here in the next hour."

"Sounds good to me. I'm really looking forward to crawling into the bed at the hotel."

His mind flickered with images. _Colorado – Denver. Connecticut – Hartford._ Grabbing a bottle of water, he made what sounded to him like a series of unintelligible grunts, then hurried out of the room.


	4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Cat mentally recited the directions back to Shane's dressing room as she hurried back from picking up the prototypes for merchandise. Her mind was whirling with the information the man that worked in marketing had given her. She would have thought it took longer to produce a new line of shirts than it did. Rearing back as the corridor intersected with another, she leaned slightly to one side so she could see around the large box she carried.

Somewhat empty. Relieved, because she'd already walked into three different people since picking up the box, she surged forward. The pen wedged between her palm and the corner of the box was uncomfortable. She scooted her hand back to relieve the ache, catching the pen between two fingers. She had to turn left at the end of the hallway. Then past three doors and—

She slammed into a wall. Not a literal wall, she realized in horror. The wall was moving. And it was talking rapidly. A male wall – a man. Wincing, Cat dropped the box, taking a step back when the man yelped.

"Oh my god I'm so sorry I couldn't see anything and—" she cut off her hasty apology when she saw that her pen was still jamming into the man's chest. Yanking it away, she cringed, seeing the streak of black ink she'd left behind.

" _Khara_ ," the man groaned, covering the spot with his hand. Confused by the foreign word, Cat could only stare at him, until he looked down.

The box between them lurched and, with a squeak of horror, Cat lunged to pull it off his foot. She opened her mouth to begin apologizing again, only to remain openmouthed and mute when he began to speak.

"Why don't you look where you're going? The place is crawling with people. You should know better than to just storm around. Is this your first day or something?" Before she could answer, he looked over his shoulder. "Did you see that?"

"A clear case of assault."

Cat whipped her head up to see the other man. He was slightly taller, and a toothpick hung precariously from the corner of his mouth. He was vaguely familiar. Had she met him the day before? He tipped the brim of his cap back and she saw blue eyes. Remembering he'd been the one who had waylaid her at one point during her back-and-forth darting backstage, she struggled to recall his name. "I didn't—"

"I think it's starting to bruise." The man she'd run into had pulled out the neck of white polo shirt. Chin tucked, he frowned and leaned so his companion could see. "Look."

"Oh, it almost broke the skin." He clicked his tongue. "If she'd been carrying scissors you'd be dying now. And she threw the box on your foot."

"It was an accident," Cat attempted to explain. But the men were shaking their heads, still examining the damage her pen had caused. "Besides, I didn't see you."

"Negligence," the taller man sighed. "Assault, intent to commit injury—"

"I didn't intend—"

"What's your name, anyway?"

"Cat Watson." She waited five heartbeats, then made an impatient motion with her hand. "And you are?"

"Ambrose." The toothpick wriggled, pointed upwards, then drooped back down. "Dean Ambrose."

No, she hadn't been introduced to him the day before. The only Dean she had met had been in Catering. She looked to the other man again and found he was eyeing her contemplatively. His dark red beard was neatly trimmed. The flat cap on his head concealed whatever hair he had. Unnerved by his brown-eyed stare, she cleared her throat and struggled to find the proper words to say. She had a sinking feeling that, despite looking as though they'd just stepped off a delivery truck, both men were important to the company.

Or maybe there was a God and they had just stepped off a delivery truck.

"There you are. I was beginning to think you'd gotten lost again."

The familiar voice was heaven-sent. Reassured that there was an omnipresent being looking over her, Cat turned to Shane. "I'm sorry. I… Well, I got waylaid."

"Everything okay?" Shane asked, looking to Dean and the other man.

"Just a bad crash, boss," Dean answered with an easy grin. Miraculously, the toothpick remained in place.

"I wasn't looking where I was going," Cat said. To her surprise, she heard another voice saying the exact same words. Looking up in surprise, she saw the bearded man was smiling apologetically. But irritation flared at his earlier attitude and she squatted to pick up the box, this time shifting it so it rested awkwardly against her hip.

"I'll just get these to the dressing room," she told Shane. He sent her a curious look, eyebrows raised, and she almost stamped one foot. She feared causing someone else another injury, though, and refrained. "Unless you needed something else?"

"No, I'm just heading out to the ring for a bit."

She nodded, aware of two other gazes on her. Taking a step back, she made sure to check that the way was clear before heading away. She had barely gone five feet when she heard laughter. Her face flamed with mortification and, comfortable flats barely making a sound, she hurried down the hallway.

Once in the dressing room she tossed the box onto the couch and threw her pen in the direction of her purse. It had been an accident, crashing into… What had his name been? She bit her lip, brow furrowing. Surely he'd introduced himself. Grunting, she stepped into the bathroom to get a damp washcloth so she could cool her overheated cheeks. Jerks, she decided once the cold cloth was over her face.

A knock sounded at the door and, sighing, she tossed the cloth into the sink and looked to her reflection. Her cheeks were not as red as they had been. Swiping a drop of water from her chin, she moved through the dressing room and eased the door open. At the last second she remembered Stephanie mentioning that it was best to greet people with a smile and curved her lips into one.

When she saw who waited in the hallway, though, her smile faded.

"Come to laugh at me some more?" she snapped. Wincing at her abrupt tone, she pressed a hand to her face and sighed. "Sorry," she muttered. "That was rude."

"Just a little." He'd removed his cap. His auburn hair was short, and looked as though a hand had run through it several times. Smiling tentatively, he jerked his head in the direction of the main corridor. "Look, that was more my fault than yours. I wasn't looking where I was going."

"I couldn't even _see_ where I was going."

"My name's Sami. Sami Zayn."

"Cat Watson." She glanced to make sure her hand wasn't dirty or wet before taking the one he'd outstretched.

"I just…" He released her hand, then ran his fingers through his hair. "Hey, we got off on the wrong foot…" His grin was quick and infectious. "Or chest as the case may be…"

"Yeah, you could say that." All her earlier irritation fled. She was still embarrassed by what had happened, but no longer mad at being teased. "I'm sorry I stabbed you with my pen… And dropped the box on your feet."

"No harm done. Well, except to my shirt…" He chuckled when she groaned. "It's all good, Miss Watson. Anyway, I was thinking I could take you out for coffee as a way to apologize for being a jerk."

"I don't—"

"You're new around here. And I've known a lot of these guys for years. So maybe I can tell you about some of them." One corner of his mouth tilted. "And tell you which ones to stay away from."

"How do I know I shouldn't stay away from you, Mr. Zayn?" she inquired, lifting one eyebrow.

"Because, of the two of us, I'm not the one that stabs strangers with pens…" Sami placed a hand over his chest.

"True," she sighed. "I think I'll stick to using the pen to take notes from now on."

"Going old-school, huh? I like it."

"You can't beat the classics, you know." Biting her bottom lip, she began to shake her head. "But—"

"You live near Headquarters?" he asked.

Surprised by the question, she nodded. "Yes…"

"What a coincidence."

"You live in Stamford too?"

"No, I park my suitcase in Florida. Outside of Orlando to be precise." Sami grinned. "But I'm going to Headquarters tomorrow to film a couple things for the Network."

"Oh." He wasn't the first to say he lived in Florida. It seemed most of the wrestlers she had met in the past twenty-four hours made their homes in that state. She wondered why, making a mental note to ask Shane later.

"So, what time should I pick you up and do you have any food allergies?"

"Why do you need to know about food allergies if we're just going for coffee?" she asked, lifting one eyebrow.

"What if you want a pastry or something? I have to make sure you don't get something that could potentially put you in the hospital…" He shrugged, one hand reaching to rub the back of his neck. "And maybe I'm hoping that coffee will lead to dinner."

"No allergies," Cat answered with a shake of her head. "And for future reference, I'm not a fan of Mexican. But I can't…" She trailed the word into a sigh. It was just coffee. What harm could it do? "How does six sound?"

"That works for me." He looked to her hands. "Where's your weapon?"

"My weap…" Biting back a laugh, she turned to retrieve it from the table. When she turned, he had stepped forward to stand in the doorway. She was about to ask if he wanted paper when he took the pen. And, to her shock, he caught her hand in his and began to write on her skin. It tickled and she had to swallow a giggle, but she didn't bother to protest.

"Text me your address," he requested softly. His fingers squeezed hers gently before releasing. "See you tomorrow, Miss Watson."

"Tomorrow," she echoed. She waited until after he'd gone before closing the door. A smile played at her lips while she got back to work. How long had it been since she'd had a date? An actual date, not just meeting someone for drinks. Pausing as she smoothed one of the shirt samples over the back of the couch, she suddenly frowned.

Chad. She supposed he had been her last date. But had he even counted? Frown deepening, she sank onto the couch. Yes, he counted. At any rate, it had been… She cringed. Almost two years since she'd last had a date. A real date that included a meal and a movie or show. Two years since she'd had to wonder what to wear, what kind of makeup to put on, how to fix her hair. She groaned, reminding herself that coffee with Sami Zayn hardly counted as a date. She would probably spill her coffee on him. Or slam his hand in a door. Or something equally mortifying that would not lead to dinner. Sighing, she forced herself to finish spreading out the shirts for Shane to look over when he returned. The two printouts with specifics for each shirt she tucked under the edge of his laptop.

She then busied herself with straightening up. Shane wasn't messy by any means, if anything he was a bit of a neat freak, but in such a small area it was easy for things to be spread around. Once satisfied, she sank into a chair and looked at the numbers written on the back of her hand.

She refused to text him so soon. She would text him in the morning. Or maybe after the show was finished. After all, she had no idea how busy he was or would be for the rest of the evening. Picking up her phone, she added him to her contacts. She had just set her phone back down when the door opened and Shane entered.

His face was damp with perspiration. As was his hair, which was slightly ruffled. With a murmured apology he reached around her to get a bottle of water from the table, then drank half of it in one gulp. The blue t-shirt he wore was damp in places, and she could only stare as he used the hem to wipe his face.

She didn't know why she was surprised to see a glimpse of lean abs. She'd had a look at his schedule. She knew very well that he worked out nearly every day of the week. Just looking at him it was plain to see that he was fit and took care of his body. Maybe she was surprised because she hadn't seen them. The night before she'd seen more chiseled male bodies in the space of three hours than she had in the past ten years. And, when he finished his water and began peeling off the shirt, she tried her very best to look away. Okay, she didn't try very hard, but she did make a small attempt.

God, even his back was lean and muscular. Smooth, lightly tanned, it was marred by a few pink, horizontal lines. With another, longer look she saw a few faint scars that resembled a spider web across his shoulders.

"I'll look over those after a quick shower," he said, glancing at her over his shoulder.

Realizing she'd been staring, she jerked her head to the side, trying to nod at the same time. "There's no rush. They just need the final okay by ten."

"Ambrose and Zayn were just pulling your leg." He'd already gone into the attached bathroom.

Was he undressing with the door open? No, it was half closed. That counted. Right? "I know," she answered. "Mr. Zayn came to apologize. I just felt humiliated. Still the new kid, you know?"

"You're adapting."

"I hope so." Rubbing the back of her neck, she stared at the half-closed door. "Do you need clothes?"

"I've got the stuff I was wearing earlier." His head popped out and he smiled. "Five minutes."

 _Stop it_ , she told herself firmly when she began to imagine what else he kept hidden beneath his clothes. She knew he had a well-shaped backside; the snug jeans he wore tended to show that off. Just as they showed off his thighs—

"Stop," she grumbled. For God's sake, he was her boss. There were at least a hundred reasons why she couldn't look at him like that. Hadn't she learned her lesson already?

Remembering, she frowned. Then, resolved, she got to her feet and looked for something that needed doing. Nothing, she realized with a groan. She supposed she could go into the bathroom and gather Shane's dirty laundry. It was safe; she could hear the shower running.

But if she did, there was a very good chance he would finish his shower. And then he would step out. And she'd see much more than his back and abs. And… And…

She sat back down.

* * *

"How long until you can move into the new house?"

Shane looked up from cutting Rogan's sandwich – quarters, please, no crust – and popped one of the pieces of crust into his mouth. Next to him, Stephanie was doing the same to Vaughan's. At some point in the past couple months, _her_ youngest had decided that what _his_ youngest wanted was exactly what _she_ wanted. It drove Paul mad.

Shane loved it.

"Soon," he answered. "Well, I guess. Within the next month or so."

"You don't sound concerned," she noted. "Aren't you sick of the apartment yet?"

"I've only been in it for a month," he reminded. Removing all traces of crust from Rogan's plate, he opened his mouth to call to his sons.

"KIDS!" Stephanie bellowed, easily drowning out anything he would have said.

Shane rubbed his ear to relieve the sting, laughing when she rolled her eyes. "You do that too well," he muttered. "Anyway, no, not sick of the apartment. I've been living in one for years, remember?"

"Well, yeah, but your place in New York was bigger." She motioned the kids to the sunroom, where their drinks and some chips were already waiting. Handing Declan and Aurora their plates, she picked up Murphy's and Vaughan's.

Carrying two plates as well, Shane followed, their conversation lapsing as they got the kids settled. The sunroom was a misnomer, for the day had been overcast. Fitful snow had fallen that morning, and he'd granted his sons a rare snow day. His sister had done the same for her girls and it had only taken one phone call for both of them to decide to work from home, though little work had been done. The earlier flurries had become a steady snowfall, and they were planning on going sledding later if enough accumulated.

Shane didn't care either way. He was enjoying the day. Over the years it had grown increasingly harder to find time to spend with his sister that wasn't a holiday. It was one of the reasons he'd agreed to his father's unexpected request. One of the reasons he had moved closer to the family.

"Anyway, you're pretty much settled now aren't you?" Stephanie asked once they were back in the kitchen. "No getting lost on your way home from the office?"

"It only happened once," he muttered.

"So you did get lost!" She positively beamed as she started working on her own sandwich.

"I didn't! I just got turned around and—" he cut off when she stuck out her tongue. "Really?"

"If you're not mature enough to admit you got lost, then I'm not mature enough to keep from sticking out my tongue."

"I hate you," he grumbled, bumping her shoulder with his.

"Love you more," she crooned. Once they were seated at the counter, she unfolded a paper napkin and glanced to him expectantly.

"The roast beef is good," he managed around a mouthful. "You make it?"

She rolled her eyes. "You know I didn't. So, tell me, have you met anyone?"

He swallowed too quickly, and winced in pain. Waiting until his throat was clear, he took a sip of water. "I've met a lot of people, Steph."

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah. You asked if I've met anyone. And I have. There are a lot of new faces in the company, you know."

"Shane…" she sighed.

"Steph…" he sighed in return.

"You need to get out and meet people." She dabbed delicately at her mouth.

"Do I need to remind you that it's only been two months since Marissa and I decided to split?" The roast beef didn't taste so good now. He reached for the bag of chips between their plates. "It's not finalized yet. So me going out and meeting people is hardly kosher."

"I didn't say you need to go out and hire a hooker, I'm saying go out and meet people. Get a look at what's out there."

"I'm not interested in what's out there right now." He looked at the chips he'd put on his plate. That was a lie. He was interested. It wasn't as though he were heartbroken, or worried that he would break Marissa's heart. He just didn't know how to let that interest show. "Besides, I'm too busy."

"Oh, please." Stephanie wiped her fingers and leaned to retrieve her phone. "No one's too busy for dinner. Or coffee."

"Steph," he warned.

"She's a wonderful person," she insisted. "She got divorced last year. Her husband cheated on her. With his brother's wife." Stephanie shuddered dramatically. "Anyway, she's really nice."

"What's wrong with her?" he asked warily.

"Nothing!" Stephanie tapped her phone's screen several times, then turned it so he could see a photo of an attractive blonde woman. "She's a psychiatrist."

"You're sending me to a psychiatrist?" Shane groaned and picked up his sandwich.

"No! I'm telling you to take her out." Stephanie pushed the phone towards him so he could see the photo again. "She's pretty."

He supposed she was. Shrugging noncommittally, he then shook his head. "I'm not ready for—"

"You don't have to take her out for a night on the town or anything. Not even dinner." Stephanie's voice was wheedling, reminding Shane of when she'd wanted to tag along with him once he'd started driving. He half expected her to threaten to tell their parents if he didn't say yes. "Just ask her out to coffee. Chat a little, see how it goes."

"Steph—"

"You don't even have to drive," she pointed out, as though that were a deciding factor. "There are a dozen coffee places within walking distance of your apartment. She's free for coffee Friday night."

"That's nice, but—Wait, what?"

"I told her you'd be calling her. She's looking forward to meeting you." Stephanie's lips curved into her sweetest smile. "C'mon, big brother. One cup of coffee and if you have fun you can extend it to dinner. No pressure."

"Coffee and dinner with a psychiatrist. You must really hate me," he muttered, shaking his head.

"Shane Brandon McMahon, I do not!"

Shane winced at the use of his full name. Even their mother didn't use it when she was upset with him. "Steph," he began with a sigh, turning to look at her. But when he saw the pout her lips had formed, and the sadness in her brown eyes, he groaned. "Okay, fine," he sighed. "Send me her number."

The pout and sadness was gone in an instant. "You won't be sorry," she promised. "Candi is a fantastic woman!"

"Candi?"

"Her name is Candace but everyone calls her Candi. With an I."

"Candi. With an I."

"Stop."

"Stop what?"

"Trying to think of reasons to get out of going to coffee. Do you have the boys this weekend?" she asked, eyes narrowing.

Shane brightened. "Yes, I do—"

"They'll stay here with me and the girls," she decided with a wave of her hand.

"But—"

"Nope." She set her phone down just as his began to vibrate in his pocket. "I sent you her number. Call her as soon as you finish eating. Friday at six."

"Do I at least get to pick the coffee place?"

"Of course you do." Stephanie picked up her sandwich. "It's not like I'm trying to arrange everything."

"Next you'll be running to my place to pick out what I'll wear," Shane snorted. Then, seeing her face light up, he grunted. "Don't even think about it."

She rolled her eyes and continued eating, letting him enjoy a few moments of silence. The kids trooped in one by one with empty plates, and Shane nodded his assent when Declan asked if they could watch a movie. Gaze drifting to the youngest two, he cleared his throat.

"Nothing above PG," he called after them. Stephanie gave him a look and he shrugged. "He and Kenny like to sneak boobs in when they can."

"Like the girls have never seen a pair before," she snorted. "By the way, how is your assistant working out?"

Surprised at the sudden topic change, and wondering why she had thought of Cat while they discussed boobs, he stood and carried his and the kids' plates to the sink. And tried to not to think of Cat's breasts. "She's fine."

"I like her. She's never been an assistant before, has she?"

"No, she was in finance before. Investments, actually. With Goldman Sachs." He pulled out his phone, suddenly realizing he should check in at the office. He and Cat had communicated a couple times by email, but he was sure he should talk to her at least once. He'd double-checked that he had no pressing appointments before sending her the email that he would be out of the office all day. Judging by her words, she hadn't minded.

"Really? Why did she leave that to babysit you?"

"Honestly, I don't know. Her supervisor there had nothing but good things to say about her. He gave her a glowing reference, said she was primed to reach the top of the chain in her career there. When I asked her during the interview, she said she needed a change of pace." He boosted himself up to sit on the counter.

"Interesting." Stephanie walked over to put her plate in the sink. "I wonder if there's another reason. We pay well, but surely not as much as she was making there. And it's not like she could be promoted from personal assistant…"

"What do you mean, another reason?"

"Problems with a coworker, affair with a boss, embezzling funds…" Stephanie shrugged. "To just up and quit because you need a change of pace is odd."

"I seriously doubt that a global investment firm would just let her go for embezzling, Steph. Or give her excellent references."

"But it could be the other things. It's not like she'd come out and say she was sleeping with someone higher up."

Shane made a face. "She's hardly the type. Getting burned out does happen, you know. And finance is a stressful career. A change of pace is understandable. She said she was there since her college internship."

His sister gave a light shrug. "If you say so… But I do like her."

"So do I. She's caught on quickly. In fact…" He slid off the counter and held up his phone. "I'm going to check in with her now."

"Then you'll call Candi?"

"Then I'll call Candi," he promised.

* * *

"Let's Marvin Gaye and get it on… You got that healing that I want… Just like they say it in the song, until the dawn, let's Marvin Gaye and get it on," Cat sang while moving around the empty office. She'd gotten used to having music playing in just a couple short days, and it had only taken an hour of silence before she'd been digging her iPod out. She was sure Shane wouldn't mind her using his speakers… At least, she hoped he wouldn't.

"We got this king-sized to ourselves… Don't have to share with no one else…" Knowing that no one could see her, she rolled her body along with the beat, leaning dramatically to retrieve the vase of wilting flowers. She pirouetted into the outer office, throwing the flowers into the trash before backing into the bathroom to dump the water and rinse out the vase.

"Whoa… There's loving in your eyes that pulls me closer. It's so subtle, I'm in trouble… But I'd love to be in trouble with you," she crooned, dancing out a moment later. She nearly sloshed the fresh water out and squeaked, reducing her movements until the vase was safely on her desk. Continuing to sway and sing along, she arranged the bouquet of chrysanthemums she'd purchased on her way to work. She put the extras into the vase on her desk then carried Shane's arrangement into his office, adjusting it just so on the small table.

"…But I'd rather be in trouble with you. Let's Marvin Gaye and get it on… Ooh, baby, I got that healing that you want, yeah. Like they say it in the songs… Until the dawn, let's Marvin Gaye and get it on…"

Back into her office, where she retrieved the printout of the emails from Merchandising. Breakdowns of the shirts he'd chosen. She clipped the pages together, slipped them into a folder, and skipped through to place it on Shane's desk before waltzing out to her office again.

"You got to give it up to me… I'm screaming mercy, mercy please… Just like they say it in the song, until the dawn, let's Marvin Gaye and get it on—"

She froze in the doorway, cheeks flooding with the heat of embarrassment. She knew she should go turn the music off, or at least lower the volume, but she was rooted to the spot.

"I didn't mean to break up the show." Sami Zayn grinned at her from across the room.

"Oh god," she groaned, belatedly raising her hands to shield her face.

"Come on, that was some good dancing," he insisted. He was leaning against the outer door and pushed away from it, removing his cap.

"That was me looking like an idiot," she muttered. How much had he seen? She would swear he hadn't been there when she'd come out with the flowers. She was sure she had gone in and out a couple times since then, but she couldn't remember looking towards the door.

"No…" His voice was closer than she would have thought and when she lowered her hands she saw he was standing right in front of her. "That was you having fun doing… Whatever it is you were doing."

"Flowers." She lifted her hand to gesture to the vase on her desk, cringing when she slapped his shoulder. "Sorry!"

"It's okay." Sami chuckled. "I'm guessing the boss is away?"

"He's working from home today," she answered with a nod. From behind her the song faded into the next. Recognizing it as one of the sappiest of love songs, she felt her cheeks burn again. "So I've got the office to myself… And obviously turned it into a dance studio."

Sami's lips quirked. "Did you take ballet when you were a kid?"

"For a few years… How did you know?"

"Well, even though you don't seem to think so, you move gracefully. And it's the way you held your shoulders…" His cheeks darkened. "Among other things."

She wondered what the 'other things' were and why he blushed before saying it. Smiling, she felt herself relax. "After all the damage I've caused you, I can hardly be called graceful. Did you need to see Shane?"

"No." He stepped back, idly twirling the cap with one finger. "I came up to see you."

"You did?" Moving to pour herself a cup of coffee, she hid her smile and hoped her cheeks were no longer red with mortification. "Coffee?"

"Half a cup." He'd moved to stand next to her, and was already reaching for a packet of sugar. "And yes, I did. The weather's not conducive to what I was originally planning for tonight."

"What were you originally planning?" she asked. His fingers brushed hers as he took the cup from her and she bit the inside of her lip.

"Oh I was going to do the whole cheesy first date thing. You know, walk in the park, dinner at a café, a movie…"

"I don't think that sounds cheesy," she assured, looking out at the falling snow. The cars in the portion of the parking lot she could see were dusted white. "But I thought we were just going for coffee?"

"Well, you know." He took a sip of his coffee. "You never know."

"Isn't that a contradiction?"

"No… I'm saying you know that you never know."

"But sometimes you do know."

"No you don't." He shook his head. "You think you know, but you never really know."

Cat blinked slowly, then nodded with understanding. "I suppose you're right."

"You know it."

Their eyes met and she snorted on a laugh. "You're insane, Mr. Zayn."

"Brilliant deduction." He lifted his cup in salute. "But anyway, I'm stumped."

She drew in a deep breath, turning to look outside again. She found she wanted to tell him that they could have dinner at her place. It was extremely out of character for her, but there was just something about Sami. Despite her stabbing him with a pen and dropping a box on his foot, there was no awkwardness with him. And she sensed that she could trust him. She had a feeling that if she invited him to dinner at her apartment he wouldn't arrive expecting more. She opened her mouth to vocalize the invitation, only press her lips together. A little voice in the back of her mind reminded her that she'd been wrong before. Deciding to err on the side of caution, she watched the flakes swirl past the window. "Why don't we just stick to coffee tonight? Then, if things go well, we can do dinner next week?"

"I think that's a good idea," he agreed.

"Just text me the address of where you want to have coffee and I'll meet you—"

"I'll pick you up." When she turned to face him he held up a hand. "I insist."

"I don't want to put you out."

"Your building is on my way to the coffee shop. Taking two cars would be a waste of gas."

"And you're a gentleman," she murmured with a wry smile. "Okay, you can pick me up."

"I'm so glad you finally agreed with me." He set his cup down. "I better get going."

"I'll see you tonight. About six, right?"

"It's a date," he chuckled.

"I'm—Hold on," she said when the phone on her desk rang. Stepping around him, she picked up the receiver, leaning against the edge of her desk. "Shane McMahon's office, Cat Watson speaking."

"Cat, it's Shane—"

"You're sitting on my hat," Sami blurted.

"Oh for heaven's sake," she laughed, standing and catching the cap before it could fall. "I'm sorry," she said into the phone, tucking the receiver between her ear and shoulder so she could smooth the cap back into shape. "There, good as new."

"Cat? It's Shane."

Cat froze at the sound of Shane's voice, the cap dangling from her index finger. "Shane?" she chirped, painfully aware of how unprofessional she was being. It was only her third – third? – day in the office and already she'd started slacking off. She had a visitor. She had music blaring. Shane could probably hear it over the phone. When Sami had taken his cap, she motioned frantically to the door of Shane's office. "The music," she hissed, smoothing her skirt and straightening her shoulders. As though that would help. "I'm so sorry," she said, breathing a sigh of relief when Sami closed the door. It didn't silence the music, but now it was just a faint muffle.

"Everything okay?" Shane asked. His voice sounded odd. Not mad, as she'd expected, but odd.

"Fine," she promised. Drawing in a breath to tell him that Sami had dropped in and what had happened when she answered the phone, she suddenly decided against it. A little white lie wouldn't hurt, would it? "I was just having a little break." From what, she had no clue. Silence from Shane, which couldn't be good. "I mean, not that I'm swamped with work. I just…" She panicked, not having thought out her little lie very well. Looking to Sami, as though he could get her out of the awkward moment, she inwardly cringed.

"I was just checking in to see if anything's come up."

"Just my embarrassment," she muttered, turning her back to Sami when he laughed. "The breakdown on your new shirts came. I put it on your desk. And Mr. Levesque's assistant called from Florida to set up a meeting next week, to go over NXT plans for the next quarter. I put the date and time in your calendar. If you need to reschedule, I'll call her back."

"Mr. Leve—Oh." There was a rustle, and she knew he was pulling up the calendar app that he'd linked with her phone. "Tuesday lunch? Works for me. Anything else?"

"Nothing."

"Right. I'll let you go. In fact, why don't you knock off a little early? The snow's probably going to stick around all afternoon."

She looked out the window, almost snorting when she saw the steady snowfall was starting to falter. "Sure thing, Al."

"Oh, very funny. You'll see."

"I'm sure I will. And thanks, I'll leave about three. I want to get home to pick—" She cut off, biting her lip to keep from telling him that Sami was coming to her apartment. She couldn't tell him that. It had nothing to do with business. "Because I don't like to drive in the snow after dark," she finished lamely. Shane didn't have to know that she loved driving in the snow when it was illuminated by headlights.

"Be safe," he said. "And I'll see you tomorrow."

"Bright and early," she promised.


	5. Chapter Five

**A/N: Thank you all for the lovely reviews! So glad people are enjoying this. :)**

Chapter Five

Humming as she knocked the excess water off her paintbrush, Cat rolled her head from side to side to stretch her neck. She'd made good progress on her latest painting and could have continued for a few more hours, but it was time to pack up for the night. Otherwise she would oversleep in the morning, and would run late for the rest of the day. She had already packed for the next round of traveling. Now she was looking forward to a warming up leftover shepherd's pie, followed by a leisurely bath and crawling into bed, where she planned to start reading a new true crime she'd purchased while shopping that afternoon.

She gave the brush another few taps against the edge of the sink then left it lying on the counter. Wiping the water drops away with a towel, she caught a glance of herself in the mirror and sighed. If she lived to be a hundred, she'd never grow out of leaving smudges of paint on her chin. She rubbed at it with the towel, then carried the towel into the utility closet to throw it into the wash.

Her phone lay on the kitchen counter and she picked it up as she passed, pausing to check for messages. A smile played at her lips when she saw a message from Sami. Their coffee date had gone well, and she hadn't wanted it to end. He'd driven her back to her apartment, promised to call, and given her a kiss on the cheek. Then, before she could open her door, he'd asked if she would like to go out to dinner next week.

 _You up for a chat later?_

Yes, she was. She sent him a message saying as much, her smile full-fledged now. Figuring he would be getting in the ring soon, she sent another, telling him to break a leg. With a groan, she realized that could be misconstrued and hurried to amend the statement.

 _Wait don't break a leg. Knock 'em dead. And by 'em I mean the audience, not whoever you're fighting._

Ugh, she was blathering over a text.

 _Ignore all that. Good luck in the ring tonight._

There. That was better. Too bad she hadn't thought of that first.

She had just tossed the phone onto the bed and reached for the hem of the oversized t-shirt she wore when the phone began to ring. Dropping the hem, she reached to answer the call. She expected to see her mother's name on the screen, or perhaps one of her sisters'. To her surprise, it was Shane. Perplexed, she quickly brought the phone to her ear. "Hello?"

"Cat. Hey. It's Shane."

His voice was low, and he sounded like he was calling from the bottom of a metal drum. "Hey. Something wrong?"

"I need your help." A sigh came through the phone. "I'd call my sister, but she's got the boys. And I'd get an interrogation that would make the Spanish Inquisition look like child's play."

"Okay…"

"Could you come pick me up?" He said where he was, and she recognized the name instantly. It was where she and Sami had gone for coffee.

"Are you having car trouble?" she asked in confusion.

"I walked. I called for a cab thirty minutes ago but it still hasn't gotten here."

She could picture him pinching the bridge of his nose. He was probably in the restroom. Wondering what had happened, she reached for her basket of clean laundry and pulled out a pair of jeans and a sweater. "Sure. I'll be there in a few. I just have to dress."

"I really appreciate this."

"No problem." Her stomach gave a hungry rumble and, despite having plenty of leftovers in the fridge, she decided that after taking him home she would get some Chinese takeout for dinner. "I'll call you when I'm out front, okay?"

"You're a lifesaver."

Shaking her head, she ended the call and dressed quickly. She ducked into the bathroom to make sure she'd gotten all the paint off her chin. After pulling on a pair of boots she grabbed her phone, wallet, keys, and coat.

It was raining. There was a bracing wind blowing, sending sheets of rain sideways across the street as she drove. The car's heater was just starting to warm when she pulled up in front of the coffeehouse. She half-expected to see Shane watching for her, but he wasn't. He answered her call on the first ring and promised to be right out. By the time she wriggled out of her coat she saw him crossing the sidewalk.

When he opened the door a gust of went blew a spray of rain inside with him. He exhaled loudly once the door was closed, brushing his palms over his thighs.

She drove off, going two blocks before she realized she had no idea where he lived. "Everything okay?" she asked, stopping for a red light.

"It is now," he murmured. "Thanks so much, Cat."

"It's no problem, really. I was coming out to grab dinner anyway." A tiny lie, but he accepted it with a nod. "Why did you walk in this mess?"

"It wasn't raining when I left. And they were calling for brief showers."

"You really need to find a better source for your weather forecasts," she sighed.

He chuckled. "Probably."

"So, where to?"

"Where are you going for dinner?"

"Chinese."

"Mind if I tag along?" He reached between his legs, then between his seat and the door.

She waited until he'd pushed the seat back. "I don't mind," she answered. "I was just getting takeout, but we can eat in—"

"Takeout's fine. I'll buy."

Her mouth opened, her tongue moved to form words of protest, but she swallowed the objection. "Well, if you insist…"

The rain eased as she parked outside the only Chinese place she'd tried since moving to town. Shielding her head with her coat, she followed him to the door, rearing back when he stopped. "Thanks," she whispered as he held the door open for her to go first.

"What do you want?" he asked, reaching for his wallet.

"Two egg rolls, pepper steak with rice, beef and broccoli, and sweet and sour chicken." Cat gave her coat a light shake before slipping her arms into the sleeves. Seeing his look of surprise, she shrugged. "I'm hungry."

"Chopsticks or a spork?"

"Chopsticks." She stood behind him while he ordered, nodding when he glanced to her for confirmation of what she wanted. Then, stepping away, she went to gather napkins and packets of sauce.

By the time she reached Shane's building, the aroma of the food had her nearly drooling. She parked in a spot he indicated, then reached for the bag on his lap to get her containers. But, to her surprise, he opened the door and climbed out, taking the back with him. "Come on," he said before shutting the door.

Oh. Turning off the engine and grabbing her phone, she got out as well, following him inside. She recognized the building as one she'd looked into online before choosing the apartment she'd moved into. It was a little more upscale than hers. A young man seated behind a desk in the lobby greeted Shane by name.

There was a security camera in the elevator. One in the hallway too, she noted as she walked behind Shane. His apartment was at the far end of the building from the elevator. He unlocked the door and stepped in first. She heard the beeping of the alarm keypad when she entered.

The door opened into the kitchen, like her own. His kitchen was larger, the center island doubling as a bar. There were four barstools placed in front of it, but what caught her attention was a coloring book left open next to a box of crayons.

"Sorry about the mess," he said, pushing the coloring book aside so he could set down the food. "The boys were here for an hour before I took them to Steph's, but they managed to destroy the place in half the time."

Remembering how rambunctious she and her sisters had been as children, Cat smiled and nodded. "It's fine. At least the floor's not sticky."

"They're slipping," he sighed, taking out containers and placing them on the counter. "Do you want a plate, or do you eat out of the box?"

Her gaze flicked to the sink, which was nearly full of dishes. "Out of the box," she decided. Okay, so she was going to eat dinner with Shane. Her boss. In his apartment. Alone.

She wasn't sure why it made her nervous. Not to the point of being jumpy, just a little anxious. As though she were stepping over a line. She shrugged off her coat, and he slipped it from her grasp before she could look for a place to hang it.

"There's a fireplace in the living room. Go turn it on while I get us drinks?" he requested, draping her coat over the back of a barstool.

Her boots were damp from the rain so she stopped short of entering the living area and slipped them off. The carpet was plush beneath her feet, coordinated with the shade of cream paint on the walls. A large sectional couch was aimed towards the entertainment center that was built around the fireplace. Finding the switch on the wall, she watched blue flames consume the fake logs. Within seconds she could feel the heat radiating and instinctively held out her hands, eyeing the stacks of video game cases.

"Oh cool," she blurted, spying a new release that she wanted for herself.

"You like video games?"

"A little," she answered. "My oldest nephew is into gaming hardcore, and he sucked me into a few, so I started buying them for myself."

"Declan did the same thing to me."

"The oldest," she said softly, hoping she had it right.

"Yep." He was setting glasses on the counter. "Water, milk, Pepsi or Mountain Dew?"

"Pepsi, please." Leaving the fireplace, she went to help him set out the food.

The food was still warm, and there was a companionable silence as they sorted out the containers and began to eat at the counter. Starting with an egg roll, she watched him manipulate his chopsticks in his fried rice.

"So…" she began after finishing her egg roll. Dabbing her mouth with a paper napkin, she tilted her head when he looked to her questioningly. "I have a couple of questions."

"I might have a couple of answers." He opened his container of pepper steak.

"How did you end up stranded at a coffeehouse on a cold, rainy night?"

"You already know the answer to that one." He popped a large pepper into his mouth and smiled. "I walked, and the cab I called never came."

"Yes, but…" She wondered if she was being too nosy. After all, it was really none of her business. Just the same… "Why couldn't whoever you were meeting give you a ride?"

He looked down, as though suddenly his container of pepper steak was the most interesting thing in the universe. Several long, awkward – at least to her – moments passed, and she began to think he wouldn't answer when he sighed and poked at his food with his chopsticks. "You know Marissa."

She blanked for a second, then nodded. His wife. She'd talked to her on the phone two or three times. A pleasant woman, who had apologized for bothering her each time she'd called, but she just wanted to make sure Shane was reminded about parents' night at school. Or Kenyon's karate class. Having dealt with wives of coworkers and bosses in the past, Cat had been pleasantly surprised that Marissa was genial. At least, she was during a two-or-three-minute phone call.

"We've been married for twenty years."

Cat nodded again and reached for her sweet and sour chicken, wondering what the length of his marriage had to do with him being at the coffeehouse.

"We're getting divorced."

"Oh." _Oh_. That explained why he wasn't wearing a wedding band. And it explained why he'd moved into a small apartment in Stamford as opposed to getting a larger place. And it explained why Stephanie was watching his sons. But…

"Steph wants me to go out and meet people." Shane exhaled a soft laugh. "Because that's what you do, right? When a relationship ends, you start looking for a new one."

"Some people seem to think so," she murmured.

"Anyway, she set me up with a friend of hers. We met for coffee."

"Did she stand you up?"

"What? No… She came. We had coffee." He picked up his drink, doing a bad job of masking a groan.

"And?" she pressed.

"It didn't go well." He rubbed a hand over his face and reached for his chopsticks.

Well that much was obvious. But why hadn't it gone well? She shouldn't ask. It wasn't her business. Even as she told herself to leave it be, she asked, "How come?"

"I don't know." He'd begun eating again. "It's been over twenty years since I did the whole 'getting to know you' routine."

"Yeah, but it was just coffee… And you're a gregarious man."

"Gregarious," he repeated with a shake of his head. She caught his quick grin. "I haven't heard that word in a long time."

"Well, you are. You're easy to talk to. Last Monday, I watched you chat with people you'd never met before like they were old friends. So what was different tonight?"

"She… I… I don't know," he sighed.

"Did she monopolize the conversation?" Cat asked, dipping a piece of chicken into the sweet and sour sauce.

"A little." He made a face. "A lot, actually. Before we sat down good I knew all the details of her divorce last year. And she rattled off all the psychological problems her ex's new girlfriend has…"

"Ouch."

"She's a psychiatrist. I kept getting the feeling that she was trying to analyze me the entire time. You remember being a kid, and telling a lie to your parents?"

"They always knew I was lying," Cat mused with an understanding nod.

"Exactly. They knew the signs to look for. That's how I felt talking to her. Like if I said a certain phrase or moved my hand a certain way she'd pick up on it and diagnose some condition or syndrome."

"And how did that make you feel?" Cat inquired.

"It made me – Oh very funny," he grumbled when she laughed. "Anyway, I couldn't take it. She kept hinting about wanting to get dinner and I panicked."

"Please tell me you didn't duck into the bathroom and wait until she gave up and left." He looked down, cheeks darkening, and she gasped. "Shane! That's awful!"

"I didn't know what else to do!" he defended.

"If nothing else you could have said you had plans for dinner."

"I'm a terrible liar." He waved his chopsticks in the air. "Just ask my mom."

Laughing, Cat shook her head and picked up her second egg roll. "You said your sister set you up with her, right?"

"Right."

"So it's probable that she's already told your sister that you ditched her."

As if on cue, his phone began to buzz loudly against the counter. Shane sighed and pulled it close, then nudged it over so Cat could see Stephanie's name on the screen.

"You have to answer," she whispered.

"I'm in the shower."

The vibrating stopped, only to start up again within seconds. Cat looked to Shane. "It could be about something else."

"She'd text me." Shane took a sip of his drink and set his glass down.

"It could be an emergency," Cat suggested when the vibrating ceased once more.

The screen flashed with an incoming message, and she saw Declan's name. "Nope," Shane announced, opening the message. "'Aunt Steph is pissed' he says."

"Does she get pissed often?"

"Only on days ending in 'y'," he quipped.

"Really?" Cat bit back a laugh when the phone started vibrating in Shane's hands. "Honestly, just talk to her."

"I will." He set the phone down and picked up his chopsticks. "As soon as I go pick up the boys."

"And when will that be?"

"As soon as I finish eating."

Cat watched him slowly lift a portion of pepper steak to his mouth. "Let me guess, that's going to be at least an hour?"

"At least. Two, if I decide to have dessert."

"I'm planning on being in bed in two hours, so you enjoy."

He was silent for a moment, gaze on his chopsticks. Then, to her complete bewilderment, he whispered, "Delaware, Dover."

* * *

"Great, thanks," Shane enthused while taking the package from the messenger. "Hold on just a second." Placing it on the dresser, he opened it to check the contents, grinning at the sight of the familiar orange box. He read over the included note, then peered inside the box. "Awesome," he murmured, closing the lid and turning to the courier. "Really appreciate it. Tell Warren I'll talk to him later," he said, giving the young man a quick handshake. Then, slipping a folded bill into the guy's palm, he smiled. "See you around."

"Thanks," the messenger said with a quick grin before leaving.

Shane slipped the box into a shopping bag, where it joined another orange box. There was still plenty of time before he and Cat had to leave for the arena. Not wanting to wait, he picked up the bag and left his room, walking the few steps to her room next door.

"Just a minute," she called after he knocked.

When she opened the door, he was briefly rendered mute. A towel was wrapped around her hair, and her body was wrapped in one of the hotel's complimentary robes. Her eyes widened slightly at the sight of him, and her hands reached to tighten the robe's belt. "Hey," he finally said, gaze dropping to her bare feet before he forced it to focus on her face. "I didn't disturb—"

"No, you didn't. I just got out of the shower."

 _Florida – Tallahassee._ "Right," he mumbled. Clearing his throat, he tried not to look at the drop of water clinging to the side of her neck. "I just needed your opinion really quick."

"Sure. Come in?" she offered, stepping back.

He walked in, his nose catching the faint aroma of shampoo and soap. He instinctively glanced around the room, which mirrored his, eyes landing on discarded clothing lying next to the bed. She slipped by him and scooped it up, inadvertently letting him see it was a short black negligee. Was it still a nightgown when it would barely reach her thighs? She was muttering something, probably excusing the mess that didn't exist, but he barely heard her, instead taking in the sight of the unmade bed. And, for some god-awful reason, his mind created images of her lying in it. Wearing the flimsy black nightie… _Georgia—_

"What did you want me for?"

 _Atlanta._ Mentally shaking his head, he lifted the bag and was about to set it on the bed, then changed his mind and set it on the dresser instead. "I wanted your opinion on shoes."

"Okay." She was rummaging in her suitcase. He saw a flash of red satin before it was concealed by denim. "Did you buy so many you can't decide?"

"Kind of," he chuckled.

"Maybe you should poll your twitter followers sometime. Post a picture of like five pairs and let them vote on which ones you should wear." Cat sat on the foot of the bed.

"That's… Actually a pretty good idea. I'll do that one day." He took out the first box and handed it over.

She set it next to her, but instead of opening it she reached up to unwind the towel from her hair. He waited, gaze on the generic art print hanging above the bed instead of on her, looking to her just in time to see her fingers running through damp locks that fell past her shoulders. On their own, his eyes moved lower, to her crossed legs. The robe had fallen open, exposing them from the knee down. Her foot was bouncing lightly in the air. A droplet of water on the inside her ankle glimmered in the light, and his mouth went dry.

 _Hawaii – Honolulu. Idaho –_ What was the capital of Idaho? His mind went blank, and he scrambled to remember what he knew about that particular state. Potatoes. That was all he could think of, and it was a hell of a lot safer than thinking of her ankles. And her toes, which were painted crimson. Idaho. What was the fucking capital of Idaho?

"Oh these are cute."

Shane jerked his chin up. She was holding one of the shoes, turning it this way and that to see all sides. "Yeah," he agreed. Shoes. Think of shoes, he told himself.

"Did you get this pair for one of your sons?" she asked, looking down at his feet then at the shoe in her hand.

"No…" he trailed, lips twitching. She honestly had no clue. There was no guile, no obvious sense of entitlement.

"Hate to break it to you, but I don't think they'll fit you," she said. Picking up the other shoe, she held both out. "They look small enough for me."

"Well I hope they are, considering I bought them for you."

The shoes fell to the floor with a soft thump. Eyes wide, she picked up the box and studied the label. "What?"

"It was the least I could do."

"What?"

"I mean, I made you ditch your heels. I wanted you to have something comfortable to wear backstage, and…"

" _What_?"

"Cat," he groaned, taking the box from her and setting it aside. Bending to pick up the dropped shoes, he went still when her leg brushed against his cheek. _Idaho – Boise_. Right? It was hard to think. He slowly drew in a breath, trying his damnedest not to notice how nice she smelled. Or how smooth her leg was. Swallowing, he straightened and placed the shoes next to her.

"You bought me shoes," she marveled softly. She was smiling.

"Did I get the right size?" he asked, nonchalantly rubbing his cheek.

"Yes. How did you guess it?"

"I looked at your heels after you took them off."

"You bought these a week ago?" When he nodded, her smile turned into a grin. "I can't believe you bought me shoes."

"They match mine," he informed, motioning to the bag on the dresser. Her grin made him feel warm and light. She looked so happy. Over a pair of shoes. Or maybe she was happy because he'd surprised her. "Go on, try them on."

"Let me get some clothes on." She stood, one hand instantly moving to make sure the robe stayed clothes. She reached for the shoes then, surprising him, turned and caught him in a hug. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he murmured, returning the embrace with one arm. He lowered it slowly as she drew away, the warmth and lightness increasing when she moved to look through her suitcase.

"Is the business look mandatory?" she asked suddenly. "I mean, for everyone but you, Mr. Jeans."

Chuckling, he shook his head. "It's not mandatory for you. Wear what you want."

Cat nodded, holding clothes to her chest and moving towards the bathroom. "Are we going to do what we did last week? Room service before going to the arena?"

"I figured we'd get something on the way," he said, mindlessly crossing the room to look out the window. "Or we can just get something from Catering."

"Sounds good to me."

Glancing around the room, he spied a small stack of books on the bedside table. He stepped over, peering at the titles. The top book was a true crime and he idly thumbed through it, surprised to see handwritten notes in the corner. Next was a thick tome on the American Revolution, followed by a novel he recognized as a recent bestseller. Beneath the books was a magazine dedicated to cross stitching. Amused by the variety of subjects, he stacked the books again and sat on the edge of the bed. He rested his elbows on his knees and propped his chin on one hand, marveling at how long it was taking her to dress. From the bathroom came the faint whir of the hairdryer, and he drummed his fingers against his chin.

He looked up when the bathroom door opened a few moments later, blinking slowly as she padded across the carpet. A pair of jeans clung to her lower half, showing off curves he hadn't realized she possessed. She'd put on a long-sleeved black t-shirt with the company logo over the left breast. Her dried hair bounced with each step and when she reached to brush it away from her face he saw a silver hoop twinkle from her earlobe.

Silent, he watched her get a pair of socks. The mattress swayed slightly when she sat down to put them on, and he stared at her back. When she bent forward to put on the shoes, he watched the fabric of the shirt stretch across her shoulders.

She wasn't wearing a bra.

He wasn't quite sure just how he knew she wasn't. He just did. There was no sign of straps, no little lumps beneath her shirt. She stood, turned to face him, and he was certain there was no bra when he saw the way her breasts gently swayed from the movement.

Damn.

"How do they look?" she asked.

"Fantastic," he promised. Because, really, all breasts were fantastic. In the olden days, when he had been young and single and allowed to look, he had never been picky. Big ones, little ones, it didn't matter. His only preference was that they were real. And he would bet good money that hers were.

"You got the right size. They fit perfectly."

Size? He hadn't guessed the size. He wouldn't even attempt to try. He just knew that the one he'd felt the week before had fit nicely against his palm. Nodding, he continued staring at her chest as she rocked back on her heels.

"And yours are just like this?"

The words pierced his mind and he jumped to his feet, forcing his head down. She wasn't talking about breasts. Shoes. The shoes. He rubbed his chin then nodded, watching her turn one foot to the side. "Yep, just like those," he answered finally. "Custom color scheme."

"Really?" She beamed. He wasn't looking at her face, but he knew as sure as his heart was beating that she was grinning happily.

"Cross my heart. You like them?"

"I do. Thank you so much, Shane."

Before he could brush off the gratitude she was moving forward. This time when she hugged him, he thoughtlessly put both arms around her. Mistake, he told himself as her chest pressed against his ribs. But he hugged her just the same. She was soft in all the right places. Her hair tickled his arm, her breath seared his chest. _Illinois – Springfield_. "I'm glad you like them," he said as they broke apart. "I figured I had to do something drastic to keep you from going back to those ankle-breakers."

Cat snorted. "I'll have you know I've been wearing ankle-breakers since I graduated college and I have never broken my ankle." She tilted her head. "Okay, I have, but I wasn't wearing heels when it happened."

"You broke your ankle?"

"Riding my bike last summer. There's a creek near my parents' house. It's in a little hollow at the bottom of an old trail. There used to be a footbridge across it, but it collapsed during a storm. I didn't know that, though, and went careening down. Went airborne. My bike went this way. I went that way." She moved her hands in a V shape. "I landed feet-first on the opposite bank. Left ankle broke, right knee dislocated, and left wrist sprained."

"Ouch," he murmured in sympathy.

"Oh, the worst part was hobbling back up the hill. I fell backwards into the creek after landing, and I looked like some old horror movie creature when I got back to the house. I thought Mom was going to have a heart attack when she saw me." She laughed. "But she recovered enough to take a picture of me before taking me to the ER."

"I think if I hobbled to the house after breaking bones and falling in a creek, my mother would have a heart attack," he mused.

"Oh, Mom's used to broken bones and her kids falling in the creek. She says it builds character." Shrugging, she turned to get something off the dresser. "What time are we leaving?"

Shane looked to his watch. "An hour?"

"Deal. You do have the rental keys?"

"In my room." He headed for the door. As much as he wanted to stay and listen to more tales involving Cat and the creek, he needed to shower and get together the things he would need for the show. "I'll text you when I'm ready to go, alright?"

"I'll be here." She followed him, and when he turned she was holding out the bag. "Don't forget your shoes."


	6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Shane had just left to go get a workout in the ring when Cat's cell began to ring. He'd said she could come along if she wanted but, expecting the call, she'd said she would head out in a few minutes.

"Hey Daddy," she greeted once she'd connected the call.

"Kitty Cat!"

Smiling at the nickname, she settled back in her seat. "What's up?"

"Oh, you know. The usual." His voice was muffled, and she heard a loud clang in the background.

"Working hard or hardly working?"

"This goddamn carburetor… I keep telling Sharon she should buy a new car. But you know your mother." Despite his grousing, his voice was filled with admiration. "She's going to drive this until it breathes its last."

"Which will never happen, because you keep that old Dodge purring like a kitten on its mama's teat," she reminded him with an indulgent smile.

"Duh," he snorted. "She'd never let me hear the end of it if I didn't."

As though her father would ever let his wife of nearly forty-five years drive a car that wasn't in perfect condition. "How many cars have you got in the shop?"

"Five. Billy Jenkins brought in his Mustang this morning. Wants me to redo the seats. And I got two deputy cars in for an oil change. The boy's doing those. Maggie's car is getting a new headliner, and I'm tuning up your mom's Dodge."

"Didn't Maggie get a new headliner right before Christmas?"

"She did. That new ex-boyfriend of hers put three cigarette burns in it last week." Evan Watson snorted derisively. "The dumbass."

"She broke up with Dennis?"

"Where the hell have you been? He's been history since New Year's. After him was that no account Brad. Thirty-five and has never held a job for longer than six months. He lasted a month. Then it was this dumbass. Chris. The guy doesn't have the common sense God gave a gnat."

Cat marveled at her father's ability to keep up with her sister's love life. She supposed it was easier, considering Maggie lived right next door. And Maggie had a tendency to tell every detail of her life, down to what she was planning on eating for dinner. "Is he at least paying for the headliner?"

"Sure. Didn't you hear about the pigs flying over Philly this morning?"

Rolling her eyes, she propped her right ankle on her left knee, lips pulling into a smile when her gaze fell to the shoe. She ran her fingers over the soft leather. She would never have bought a pair of white and blue Nikes on her own, but she was already in love with them. Thumb brushing over the embroidered dollar sign at the heel, she shook her head. It was too much. She probably shouldn't have accepted them.

"So how's my Kitty Cat?"

"I'm fine, Daddy," she promised. "I'm getting used to the schedule."

"Just make sure you get to the reunion."

"I'll talk to Shane about it, but I'm sure I'll be able to make it. Besides, that's months away."

"Be here before you know it." Another clang, followed by grumbles of disgust. "Piece of fucking…"

Cat held the phone away from her ear, bouncing her foot while she waited for her father's curse-riddled tirade to finish. After a few seconds she brought it back, only to pull it away again. She had no idea how a piece of fucking shit could also be a shit-licker, and doubted she ever would. She waited another moment before slowly putting the phone back up to her ear, and was relieved to hear the tail-end of a sigh. "Problems?"

"I just knocked out the fuel line." He sighed again. "So I better go, Kitty Cat."

"Okay, Daddy. Talk to you soon."

"Don't forget the reunion."

"I won't," she promised. "Love you."

"Love you, too. Hey, Jimmy! I need my—"

Cat lowered the phone and ended the call with a shake of her head. As much as her father complained each time something went wrong when he worked on a car, she knew he wouldn't trade it for anything. He'd built up a relatively booming business, having started as an attendant at a service station when he was sixteen. By the time she had been born, he'd gone from pumping gas to driving a tow truck to managing a body shop to opening his own garage. Many of her earliest memories were centered in that garage.

Break time over, she decided, getting to her feet. Pushing her phone into the back pocket of her jeans, she made sure her pass was still clipped to the front pocket before leaving the dressing room. She stopped in the hallway for a second to get her bearings, then headed in the direction of the ring. She had only gotten lost once so far since arriving a couple hours before.

She was making her way around the sectioned-off makeup and wardrobe sections when she heard someone calling her name. Looking about, she smiled at the sight of Sami.

"Hey," he greeted. "Busy?"

"Not really, just heading out to the ring." He was wearing a coat, a backpack hanging from one shoulder. Her eyes traveled behind him and she saw a man walking towards them, pulling two suitcases behind him. He was slightly taller than Sami, and a pair of red headphones circled his neck. What was his name? She couldn't remember. "Are you just arriving?"

"Just checked in," Sami confirmed as the other man stopped next to him. "Thanks. You've met Cesaro, haven't you?"

Had she? Looking up at him as he removed his sunglasses, she offered a tentative smile. "Hi."

"Hello," he greeted in accented English.

No, she hadn't met him. "Cat Watson," she said.

"Antonio Cesaro," Sami introduced. "Miss Watson is Shane's assistant."

"How do you do."

"Swiss," she blurted. Cesaro's eyebrows rose slightly. "I recognize the accent. I've been to Lucerne on business."

"I hope that my hometown treated you well," he said with a smile.

"Oh, everyone was lovely." Cat looked to Sami. "Is he one of the ones I should stay away from?"

He laughed. "No, he's okay."

Cesaro looked between them, obviously amused, then excused himself. Cat watched him go, turning to Sami. "How did the show go last night?"

"I didn't break a leg," he promised, grinning. "And I didn't knock anyone dead."

Groaning, she wondered if he would ever let her forget her rambling texts. "You know what I mean."

"It was great. Hopefully you'll get to a house show soon." He lowered the handle of his suitcase then raised it until it clicked. "Question."

"Answer."

"How does a personal assistant go to Switzerland on business?"

"She doesn't. At least, I haven't. I mean, I wasn't a personal assistant when I went there." She saw the confusion in his eyes. "I used to work in global investments. We traveled to Lucerne at least twice a year. And Rome, Paris, London, Madrid, Tokyo… Last year I was able to go to Australia."

"So you're well-traveled." He smiled. "Is there a place you haven't been that you really want to go to?"

"Ireland." She answered without having to think. "Both sides of my family are from there. My mother's side hailed from Dublin, and my father's from County Galway. The times I went to London I always told myself I would take a couple extra days and go over, but it never worked out."

"Well you'll be able to see it soon."

"I will?"

"Haven't you looked at the schedule? Shortly after Mania we hit the UK and Ireland."

"Seriously?" she asked. She hadn't looked at the schedule, at least not that far ahead. Wanting to make things easier to keep track of, she had decided to only work two or three weeks in advance. "Oh my god. I can't wait."

"You'll have to wait a little bit longer," he pointed out. Grinning when she wrinkled her nose, he tilted his head in the direction of Catering. "Walk with me?"

"Sure."

"I just need to throw my stuff into the locker room," Sami said when they reached a fork in the hallway. She watched him go to the left, and heard boisterous male voices as he opened a door. It swung shut behind him, shutting off the noise, and when he came out a moment later it seemed louder than before.

"Where are we going?" she asked when they'd passed Catering and turned down another corridor.

"Honestly? I have no idea." His arm bumped against hers. "I just wanted to walk with you."

"Cute," she murmured, ducking her head as her cheeks warmed.

"Cute?"

"Cute," she affirmed with a nod. "You, Mr. Zayn, are definitely cute."

"Not devastatingly handsome? Tall and brooding? Enigmatic?"

She snorted on a laugh, bumping her arm against his. "I didn't think you were the type to fish for compliments."

"I'm not. But if you want to grab the hook…"

"You're cute," she insisted, laughter fading. Their steps had slowed. He turned to look at her, still smiling, and she nodded. "Tall, too, at least compared to me. I wouldn't say you're brooding or enigmatic, though."

He lifted an eyebrow. "No?"

"No." They reached the end of the hallway and, faced with a door that warned an alarm would start if it opened, she leaned against the wall. The light wasn't the best, but she could see him well enough. It wasn't a dim, concealed corner. He leaned against the opposite wall, pushing his cap back.

He was handsome, she thought, chewing on the inside of her lip. His height and muscular frame weren't intimidating. Instead, coupled with his light brown eyes and sweet smile, he exuded warmth. Inviting. That's what he was. She couldn't help but look at him, knowing she was staring but unable to stop, and her stomach gave an odd little flutter when he propped one foot on the wall. His lips curved into a smile, his eyes traveled down her figure, and the flutter moved to her chest.

"Won't you be missed?" she asked softly. She didn't comprehend that she was moving until she was standing right in front of him. So close his fingers grazed her arm as he unzipped his coat.

"I have a few minutes." He opened the front of his coat then dropped his hands. "I like the casual look, by the way."

She glanced down at her jeans and company shirt. At some point the previous week, a woman from the warehouse had shown up to the office with two boxes of shirts for her to go through. Courtesy of the company, she'd insisted. Some were discontinued, some were new. Cat had chosen several and thrown a few into her suitcase, figuring they would be good for working out in if nothing else. "Thanks. Shane told me I didn't have to dress for the office while we're on the road."

"Makes sense, as much as you have to go back and forth." His eyes met hers. "Got your weapon?"

"It's tucked in my purse," she informed him, making a face. "You'll never let me live that down, will you?"

"Never."

"Thanks a lot." Out the corner of her eye she saw his hand come up. Toying with the hem of her shirt as he removed his cap and tucked it into the pocket of his coat, she drew in a breath. A lock of hair that had loosened from her ponytail fell against her cheek. She reached to push it away, but he beat her to it. His fingers whispered over her cheek, causing her breath to hitch. He raised his other hand, fingers grazing her other cheek, and she dropped her gaze to his lips. Wrong place, she thought. Her mind calculated how long it had been since she'd been kissed, then moved right into whether or not Sami was a good kisser. All in an instant before she realized how very much she wanted to be kissed.

Had he moved closer? Or had she done it? Either way, there was less space between them. Tilting her head back slightly, she swallowed when his fingers grazed her cheek again.

He was leaning down, or she was leaning up, and she could smell mint on his breath. Her own breath wouldn't budge from her lungs. His chest was solid warmth beneath her palm. She thought she heard him whisper her name, but she was too focused on the fact that she could feel his breath on her cheek.

Then, to her surprise, his lips pressed sweetly to her forehead.

No, she wasn't really surprised. Nor was she disappointed. He was a consummate gentleman. He opened doors, he held out chairs, he helped a woman with her coat. He wasn't the type to lock lips before the second date. Well, first date, really, considering they'd only had coffee. At any rate, he wasn't that type. Maybe if she asked he would. But she didn't want to come across as desperate. Longing to be kissed though she may be, she smiled and enjoyed the feel of his soft lips against her brow.

"I have to do work down at the Performance Center Wednesday and Thursday," he said softly, pulling back and drawing her from her thoughts.

"That's the training place, right?"

"Yeah. So I can't come up to Stamford for our date." His thumbs patted her cheeks when she frowned. "Let me finish… I was thinking that instead of dinner, we could do breakfast instead."

"How early?" she asked warily, wondering if she would have to get out of bed at the crack of dawn.

"I said breakfast, not watch the sunrise," he teased. "How does eight sound?"

"Eight works." She would be awake by then if she followed her normal sleeping schedule. Grateful she wouldn't be traveling to the next city that night, she rested her hands on his chest. "At the hotel, or did you want to go somewhere else?"

"Somewhere else."

"It's a date," she murmured. "And… When you get back to Stamford, we can have dinner at my place."

His eyes brightened. "You cook?"

"I'm not a contender for _Iron Chef_ , but I can put together a decent meal. Comfort food, mostly. Just like my mom taught me."

"That is definitely a date. Maybe we can watch a movie on TV, too."

"No Netflix and chill," she told him with a wry grin. "Because I don't have Netflix."

"We'll find something."

"I'm sure we will."

"And I better get ready to get to work," he sighed after a moment.

"This is probably going to sound like a stupid question…" She paused, enjoying the sensation of being so close to him. His hands had slipped down until his arms were loosely draped over her shoulders. Her elbow rested on his bent knee. Beneath her palm his heartbeat was a steady, soothing thumping. "Keep in mind that I'm still ignorant in the ways of the professional wrestling world."

"Of course."

"Why does everyone have to get here so many hours before the show?"

"Well, the writers are still finalizing the script for all the promos. You know, the talking bits. Matches have been booked, and those with matches have to get with their opponent to go over how it's going to pan out. Somewhere, the docs are pulling names to have talent pee in a cup for a random drug test. And then we have meet and greets, Make-A-Wish things, interviews, photoshoots." He moved one arm, fingers nudging the lock of hair behind her ear again. "The list goes on and on."

"Okay, now it makes sense." She smiled. Extricating herself from him, she felt the flutter in her chest again when his fingers swept over her jaw. "Do you have a match tonight?" she asked once he'd pushed away from the wall.

"I'm not sure yet." His lips pulled into a smile. "I didn't check when I went into the locker room. I was distracted."

"So I'm distracting?"

"If I have to be cute, you can be distracting."

"Cute is a lot better than distracting," she scoffed.

"How about engrossing?" he offered as they began walking down the hallway. The back of his hand lightly brushed hers with each step.

"I know it has a nice definition, but it has 'gross' in it," she sighed. She bent her wrist, feeling that flutter start up once more when his hand slipped over hers. His palm was rough beneath her fingers, and she liked the sensation.

"Enthralling?" he suggested.

"Oh, I like that." They'd reached the intersecting hallways. Turning to face him when he stopped walking, she looked at their clasped hands. "See you later?"

"You will," he promised. She was about to pull her hand from his when he grinned. "Hey… Do you have to ride with Shane tonight? I mean, would he let you ride with someone else?

"

"I don't see why he wouldn't," she answered. It wasn't as though she had actually worked on their drive the week before. She vividly recalled falling asleep as soon as they'd gotten onto the interstate. She couldn't imagine there being anything she had to do that couldn't wait until the next morning. "I'll double check with him and text you."

* * *

"Okay, so I think I've got it," Cat announced.

Surprised by the sudden outburst, Shane looked up from the proposed storylines that would take place after WrestleMania. Cat was sitting on the couch, laptop balanced on one knee, iPad on the other. On either side of her were their phones. She had taken his to send out a tweet, then had mentioned wanting to download an app she thought he needed.

"What have you got?"

"This Roman dude." She gestured to the monitor that was playing Roman's in-ring promo.

"What about him?"

"He's totally related to Dwayne Johnson."

She looked so proud of herself. Shane masked a laugh with a cough. "They're cousins, actually."

"Really?"

"Yes. Their family has been in the business for generations." He turned to the next page of storylines and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "…You do know that Dwayne Johnson used to wrestle, right?"

He saw her lips twist. She was suddenly overly interested with something on her iPad. "…Yes, I know that… Now," she muttered.

"The Rock? He came back for a couple of Manias… Had matches with Cena."

"Cena… Oh, him." She dismissed the name with a wave of her hand. "But I'm not a huge fan of Johnson's. I just like a couple of his movies."

"What kind of movies do you usually watch?" It was a random question, he knew. And he didn't even know why he'd asked. Probably because she rarely mentioned pop culture.

"Oh, you know." She locked her iPad and set it to the side, then picked up his phone. "A little of this, a little of that."

"I don't think I've seen a 'that' in ages," he sighed dramatically. "A 'this' either. Are they still good?"

"Ha-ha. I mean I like a lot of different stuff. Disney and Pixar, of course."

"Of course," he echoed with a wave of his hand.

"And old film noir. _Maltese Falcon_ and the like. Really any old classic Hollywood films. Mom's loved Cary Grant since she was a toddler, so I watched a lot of his stuff growing up. And the old musicals, too. And I like more recent stuff, too. Superheroes, period dramas. Star Wars. I know I should expand my horizons, but I rarely sit down to watch a movie." She smiled, shoulders lifting in a shrug. "I haven't been in a theater in ages."

"Really?"

"Really." She leaned to place his phone next to him then settled back, eyes going back to the laptop. "The last movie I saw in a theater was _Frozen_. I took my nieces."

"My nieces made me sit down and watch it when it came out on DVD."

"Did you like it?"

He met her eyes above her laptop's lid. "It was a Disney princess movie geared towards little girls."

"Well, yeah, but did you like it?"

"It was okay." He cleared his throat and looked back down at the paper in his hand. "Until a copy of the soundtrack ended up in my car's stereo and Rogan refused to listen to anything else for three months."

"Why do I have the feeling that the soundtrack disappeared?" she mused.

"It didn't disappear," he defended, reaching for his pen to make a note in the margin. "I know exactly where it is."

"And that would be…"

"In a landfill. Where it belongs."

"So, you could say that you…" She hesitated until he looked up again, and her glossed lips curved into a smile. "Let it go."

"Really?" He didn't bother to fight his sudden smile.

"I had to. Are those the proposed storylines?" she asked.

"Yeah. It's all tentative, but I like some of them."

"Can I ask a few questions while you read?"

She was drumming her fingers on the closed laptop. Shane made another note then lowered the papers slightly. Figuring she would be asking about the product, he nodded. "Go ahead."

"Are there any rules against dating within the company?"

Okay, not about the product. "Not that I know of… If you want me to I can ask Steph—"

"No, no, that's not necessary. I'm sure it's in all that paperwork I got… But, you think, hypothetically speaking of course, I could date one of the superstars and not get into trouble?"

"Yes," he answered slowly. Seeing relief flash across her face, he tapped his pen against his thigh. Was she interested in one of the guys? He couldn't recall seeing her doing more than greeting any of them. He wanted to ask, but it wasn't his business. "Hypothetically speaking, of course."

"Of course." Then, tilting her head, she eyed him curiously. "Are you going to have another thingamabob after WrestleMania?"

"Thingamabob?" he repeated with a chuckle. "You mean rivalry?"

"Yeah, that."

"No, I'm not. At least, not immediately after."

"So your match with Mark is a one-time thing?"

"Right now it is. Things change every day."

"Yeah, I've noticed. Do you know if Roman's going to beat Trip - er, Paul, whatever – at WrestleMania?"

"Yes, I know." She looked from the monitor to him and he grinned. "But if I tell you, I'll have to kill you."

"Fine," she sighed. "Do you know if you're going to beat Mark?"

"I'd tell you, but—"

"You'd have to kill me, I know." She picked up her phone and looked at it for a moment, then cleared her throat. "Oh, I marked a couple days on the calendar that I'd like to have off, if you can spare me. It's a weekend, and I'd be flying out by myself for Raw that Monday."

Shane reached for his phone to see. She had already noted on each Monday which city they would be in, and he scrolled down to see which weekend she was talking about. "Two weeks after Mania," he said with a nod. "It's not really time off, Cat. I'm fine with it."

"I just know you like to get to Raw cities the day before…"

"I think I can take care of myself for one day."

"Just one, huh?"

Chuckling, he nodded. "Just one."

"The past thirty-odd years were just a fluke then?"

"Forty-six," he corrected.

"What?"

"I'm forty-six."

"Oh." Her lips twisted. "Obviously I still haven't done my research."

"I won't fire you for it." Finished with the storylines, he reached for his laptop to send an email to his father.

"I can't even keep up with the current champions. I know Roman's the main champ. And Charlotte is the women's champion… Wait, no, Divas. Which makes no sense."

"What do you mean?"

"Why are they called Divas? I've seen some of those ladies in the ring. They're not divas. They're women wrestlers. Calling them Divas makes them sound subpar to the men, which they're not. I'm pretty sure that a few of them could wipe the floor with half the men's locker room…" She sighed. "I know there's the whole 'Total Divas' tie-in, but not all of them are on it. I just don't get calling them Divas."

Halfway through typing the email, Shane's fingers stilled. Mind churning, he pondered her words. Before he could stop himself he closed the laptop and got to his feet, slipping his phone into his pocket. "I—"

"And the belt looks ridiculous."

"I agree with you on that. I'm—"

"A pink butterfly," she went on with a shake of her head, eyes on the monitor. "It clashes with half their outfits, and it looks tacky. Like something I could have bought in Claire's when I was sixteen."

Chuckling, Shane impulsively tousled her loose hair. "I'm going to talk to Dad for a bit. I'll mention that."

"Oh god, please don't!" She looked to him in horror, scrambling to her feet.

"Why not? It's the truth."

"Yes, but telling you the truth is vastly different from telling your father the truth."

"You really are scared of him, aren't you?"

"Not scared," she defended, folding her arms over her chest. "A little intimidated, maybe."

"His bark is worse than his bite," he promised. "I'll be back in a little while."

"One more thing. Real quick," she added. Her tongue swept over her lips and she drew in a deep breath. "Is it okay if I ride to the next town with someone else?"

His first instinct was to ask why the hell she didn't want to ride with him, but he quickly tamped down the insulted pride. "I… Sure?" he offered. He supposed she wanted to make friends with some of the crew. Probably Natalya, he realized with a brief smile. If anyone had asked her to ride along, it was Nattie. The woman was always the first to reach out in friendship. "Yeah, it's no problem at all."

Cat beamed. "Thanks."

Nodding, he said again that he'd be back shortly, and left to go meet with his father. He was tempted to seek Natalya out and thank her for reaching out to Cat, but decided it would wait until later. He had to work on the strategy he would use with Vince. He understood Cat's hesitation that the old man find out it had been her idea, and mentally prepared the speech he would give as he made his way to the makeshift office his father was using for the night.

Over half an hour later he made his way back. The beginnings of a headache nudged at his temples and his ears still rang with his father's tirade. Nonetheless, he was sure he'd made headway. He'd even had an unexpected ally in his argument. Paul had walked in midway through his speech, and had defended the statements. Though they rarely saw eye to eye, Shane had appreciated his steadfast support and was certain that Paul's presence had taken some of the wind from his father's sails. When he'd left, Vince had been muttering that perhaps a little change would be a good thing.

He was looking forward to telling Cat that he was nudging his father in the right direction. Just as he was looking forward to hearing more of her opinions about the product. Approaching the dressing room, he began to smile. She represented a portion of the audience they were trying to draw, it was only fair that her opinion be one they took into consideration.

His steps slowed at the sound of laughter, and he saw to his surprise that the door was open and Sami Zayn was standing just inside. He knew the man had just had a match. He'd seen some of it while in his father's office. Sami was still in his gear, and had thrown on a hooded sweatshirt. Shane stopped in the doorway, saw the younger man unwinding the tape from his wrists.

He turned slightly, grin faltering when he saw Shane. "Hey, sorry," he said, stepping aside so Shane could enter.

"Good match," Shane told him. Even though he hadn't seen it entirely, he knew the man's work enough to know that he never gave less than a stellar performance.

"Thanks." Sami gathered his wrist tape in one hand and balled it up, gaze moving to Cat.

Cat, who was smiling prettily. Cat, who was taking the balled-up tape to throw it away.

Cat, who obviously _was_ interested in one of the guys.

Even though it was his dressing room, Shane felt as though he were intruding. He stepped over to where he'd left his laptop, studiously keeping his gaze from Cat and Sami. He couldn't tune out their words, however, and felt a muscle in his jaw begin to twitch as he settled down to finish the email he'd started earlier.

"I better hit the shower," Sami said. "I'll come by to help with your stuff when the show's over."

"Or you can text me and I'll meet you out back," she suggested. "What kind of car is it?"

Oh. So she wasn't riding with one of the women, as he'd assumed. She was riding with Sami. Shane didn't know why it perturbed him. Why did it matter how she got to the next town? As her boss, his only concern should be that she was there to start her job on time the next day. Yet, the thought of her alone in a car with the high-energy Sami Zayn bugged him.

"I'll see you later, Shane."

Looking up, Shane nodded, smiling. "Sure thing."

A few seconds later the door closed behind the visitor and Shane was able to finish his email. He was aware of Cat moving around, packing up things that wouldn't be needed for the remainder of the show. She ducked into the bathroom for a moment.

"You've got the hotel info?" he asked when she stepped out a moment later.

"Yep." She reached past him to grab an empty water bottle.

"And directions?"

"Of course." The water bottle landed in the recycling box with a clatter. "Besides, Mr. Zayn knows where to go."

Of course he did. Shane lightly drummed his fingers against the table, watching while she tucked her laptop, iPad, and the box of Uno cards into her tote. "The company card for check-in?"

Cat nodded and pulled her wallet out of the bag. "Right in here." She looked amused. "I keep all that straight for you, so shouldn't I be asking you all these questions?"

"Oh, for—"

"I'll send the directions to your phone and call ahead to the hotel so they'll be expecting you. If I get there before you I'll check you in."

"Cat, I can check myself into a hotel," he defended. He wondered if Sami was a competent driver. Would he be blasting music the entire time? Would he be too busy talking to Cat to pay attention to the road? He couldn't understand all the sudden worries. Aside from the occasional break down, he'd never heard of any travelling catastrophes in recent years.

But this was Cat. His right-hand man – woman. True, she was responsible for keeping him together on the road. But he felt a responsibility towards her as well. She wasn't used to travel. She had said so herself just the previous week. All her previous travel experience had been from airport to airport to hotel, and from there to whatever global bank she was visiting for a week. Aside from the occasional family vacation, she never had to visit two cities in as many days.

And he supposed he was just a worrier. He had been since the birth of his first son. Not so much about himself, but about those around him. The world could be a scary, dangerous place. Especially late at night. Sighing, he closed his laptop and wasn't surprised when she reached to take it and pack it away.

"Just be careful," he finally muttered.


	7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

On her list of least-favorite places, a hotel bar after midnight was easily in Cat's top five. To her, being in one reeked of desperation. Yet, when Sami suggested they grab a nightcap when they arrived and had checked in, she murmured an agreement.

He actually said _nightcap_. She had a ridiculous urge to curtsy when they parted ways at the elevator to throw their things into their respective rooms.

The bar was not overly elegant, but was still several steps up from the somewhat grimy bar her father went to every once in a while. That place was just above being a dive, and its blue-collar clientele didn't care about brass fittings and subdued color schemes. All they wanted was their cold beer and the race or football game on the TV in the corner.

There was no TV here. Nor a jukebox. She noticed that while taking a seat at the small table Sami indicated. Few of the other tables were being used, and a handful of people sat at the bar. There was a faint hum of murmured conversations. The occasional clink of ice against glass. Glancing around, she recognized a couple of the men at one of the tables. They were immersed in conversation, the one – Dean, wasn't it? – using his hands to emphasize a point.

After giving their orders to the soft-spoken waiter that appeared, she and Sami both sat back with a sigh. Cat smiled. "Aren't you exhausted?"

"Oh, I'm always exhausted. But yeah, I'm looking forward to falling into bed." His eyes met hers and she saw his cheeks darken. "I mean, you know, to sleep." He cleared his throat and looked towards the bar. "Alone."

"You don't share a room with anyone?"

"Once in a while I do. And when I do it's always Kevin or Neville."

"Neville," she repeated, searching her memory. For perhaps the millionth time since being hired by Shane, she made a mental note to actually learn more about the company and those employed.

"He's out with an injury right now," Sami explained with an understanding smile.

Okay, so it wasn't someone she had met and immediately forgotten. "And Kevin's the big guy you were talking to before we left the arena, right? The grumpy looking one?"

Chuckling, Sami nodded. "He's a teddy bear," he promised as the waiter returned with their drinks. "Thanks."

"Thank you," Cat murmured, lifting her glass for a sip. The liquor slid, pleasantly warm, down her throat. "Why don't you always room with Kevin?"

"He's married with two kids, and sometimes they come out to join him for a couple days. And sometimes we get solo rooms whether they're with him or not. I'm not going to complain either way."

She had a feeling that Sami rarely, if ever, complained.

"And what about you, Miss Watson? Do you share a room with anyone?"

"So far I've been able to stay solo." She lifted one shoulder in a shrug, praying she wouldn't give off vibes that she longed to have someone sleep over. Anyone.

"Perks of being Shane's assistant, huh?" He lifted his drink, then lowered it quickly. "Not that I'm saying you're his assistant because of the perks. I mean, aside from the obvious perks. You know, the pay and benefits. And by benefits I mean insurance and… Help?"

"No, keep digging, I want to see you climb out of the hole," she insisted, grinning.

Sami groaned and took a quick swig of his drink. "I'm an ass. I'm sorry."

"You're not an ass. Is this your bumbling way of asking if—" Movement in her peripheral vision distracted her, and she looked up to see Dean and Cesaro walking towards their table. She was grateful for the interruption, and made no complaint when Dean dragged a chair over and flopped down.

"We're not interrupting anything are we?" he asked, nudging the brim of his cap back. Before either could answer, he lifted his beer for a swig. "Good."

Cesaro hesitated for a span of five seconds before pulling a chair over and sitting. He was drinking coffee, Cat noted. He and Dean greeted her casually before turning to Sami and launching into a discussion about a match that had occurred at Raw.

Of course they wanted to talk shop. They lived and breathed wrestling and the lifestyle it entailed. Hotel bars at one in the morning were probably the norm for them. She didn't begrudge them the desire to go over their job in minute detail. After a moment, she finished her drink and pushed back her chair.

"I'm going to turn in," she explained when Sami glanced over. She had barely gotten to her feet when he and Cesaro rose to theirs. Dean grunted at the interruption, but gave her a quick nod.

"I'll walk up—"

"No, it's fine," she insisted with a smile. She included the other two men in her goodnights, told Sami she would see him the next day, and left the bar.

She supposed she should let Shane know they had arrived safely. He hadn't texted her since earlier, when she had messaged him that she and Sami were on the road. He hadn't called either, which wasn't surprising. He was the type not to call or text when he knew someone was driving. But it was so late…

Mentally arguing with herself, she turned down the corridor to approach the elevators, reaching into her purse to retrieve her phone when she saw a familiar figure up ahead.

"Shane," she called out, unable to keep from smiling as he glanced back. Hurrying to catch up, she punched the 'up' button. "Did you just get in?"

"Yeah. Have you been here long?"

"Long enough to grab a quick drink in the bar." The door to the elevator on the left slid open and she put a hand out to hold it while he pulled his large suitcase onto the car. He lowered his backpack with a sigh. Drawing in a deep breath, she released it slowly, watching him reach out to punch the button for their floor. "How was your trip?"

"Boring," he answered. "Yours?"

"Monotonous. Why do all highways and interstates look the same in the middle of the night?" She leaned against the wall, eyebrows raising as the door shut, a metallic whine coming from beneath the floor. With a shudder, the car began to slowly rise. Watching the panel above the door light up with each floor they passed, she drew in another breath. "Suppose a new employee wanted to start doing her homework…"

"Oh?" Shane chuckled. "Is there a particular employee you have in mind?"

"No. Just a random new employee."

"I see. What type of homework is she doing?"

"She wants to learn a little about the business, and some of the history of the company. Which would be the best place for research?"

"Well… If you – I'm sorry, _she_ – wants to learn about the product, I'd direct her to the Network. As an employee she already has a membership and can look up practically any match or show she could ever want to see. There are collections and best-of videos, which would probably be a good starting point. Or she could skim through the last few months' worth of Raw and Smackdown to get a concise picture of current storylines and rivalries."

"I think she could handle that. And the history of the company?" she inquired, biting her lip when she heard something above them clang. Why was the elevator moving so slowly?

"The official website has some information. But she would probably get a more thorough write-up from Wikipedia."

"I'll be sure and pass the suggestions along. Thank you."

"If she has any questions, be sure and let me know. I'll answer any she may have."

She shared his smile, then grimaced as the elevator car lurched to a stop. Straightening, she was about to step forward when she realized they hadn't reached their floor. "Shit," she muttered, looking to the panel above the door. None of the floor numbers were lit. The overhead lights flickered, and she felt her stomach twist with worry. "Shane?"

"It's fine," he assured gently, already pushing buttons. "It's fine," he repeated a few seconds later while he opened the panel that revealed an emergency phone. He lifted the receiver to his ear, and Cat's stomach twisted further when his brow furrowed. His fingers toggled the cradle a few times, then he slowly replaced the receiver. "It's dead."

"Cell phone," she blurted, already digging through her purse for hers. It was the age of technology. Towers dedicated to cellular communication were everywhere. And, considering how much she paid per month for service, she should have been able to make a call from the deepest cave in the world. Which was probably why she cried out in horror upon seeing she had no signal whatsoever.

"Cat," Shane murmured, gently catching her arm. "It's okay. I've pushed the emergency button, so they know there's a problem."

"If the phone's dead, the emergency button is probably dead, too," she mumbled, barely noticing the warmth of his hand.

"Calm down. There's no need to get stressed, okay? We'll be out of here in no time." He gave her arm a squeeze before releasing, then tried the emergency phone again.

"How far up do you think we are?" she asked.

"The last floor I noticed us passing was the fifth… So, probably six or seven floors up." He leaned against the button to open the door, and shook his head. "We may be between floors."

"Of course we are," she groaned.

"You've never been stuck in an elevator before have you?"

"No, thank god." She gathered her loose hair in one hand. The elevator was overly warm. Or perhaps her irrational fear was just making her hot. "If I had, I don't think I would have ever gotten on another one."

"Hey, there's a first time for everything."

"Do you have a signal?" she asked hopefully, holding her hair while pawing through the contents of her purse with her free hand. Eyes on him, she caught a bobby pin with her groping fingers and secured her hair to the back of her head in a loose bun. She began to chew on her thumbnail, watching him slip his phone from his pocket, and felt the knot of worry in her gut tighten when he held the phone aloft before lowering it with a shake of his head. Groaning, she slumped against the wall. "What are we going to do?"

"We're going to relax and wait for them to get the elevator fixed," he decided.

"Relax," she repeated, unable to keep the whine from creeping into her voice. Sliding down the wall until she was seated on the floor, she drew in a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself. "I know this isn't the best time to tell you this, but… I'm a little bit claustrophobic."

"Claustrophobic?" he asked softly, hunkering down next to her. His face showed concern.

"Yes and I don't mean I'm scared of Santa Claus," Cat muttered. Pulling her knees to her chest, she tried to picture the wide open spaces she loved so dearly.

"I've seen you in elevators before and you've always been fine."

"I am fine, as long as I get on and get right off again." She focused on keeping her breathing as even as possible. "It's not really the fear of small spaces, you know? It's just… Feeling trapped. I never had a problem with it until I was ten and Maggie locked me in the closet under the stairs."

"She locked you in the closet?"

"It was an accident." She felt the need to defend her sister, despite years of suspecting that Maggie had done it on purpose. "I was locked in there for hours, until Mom found me at dinnertime. It was dark and there wasn't much room to move around and there were spiders and…" She shuddered at the memory.

"You're going to be okay, Cat," Shane promised softly. "It's not dark in here. You have a little room to move around. And… I don't see any spiders."

But she was hot. And thirsty. Thinking of the bottled water she always carried with her, she bit the inside of her lip when she remembered taking it from her purse and throwing it onto the dresser in her room. Nodding just the same, she breathed a sigh of relief when he moved away and tried the emergency phone again.

He was so calm. So cool and collected. He didn't appear to be hot, despite the nearly stifling temperature of the elevator. He looked as crisp and put together as he always did. As though he hadn't just driven for two and a half hours. His shirt was barely creased, his hair not the least bit mussed. Gaze dropping to the backpack leaning against his suitcase, she lowered her knees until she was sitting cross-legged.

"Do you have anything to drink?"

"Yeah, there's some water." He had his cell phone out again, and was slowly turning in a circle. "Help yourself."

Leaning, she dragged the backpack closer and began searching. As she had expected, it held little more than his laptop and chargers. A pack of Juicy Fruit gum and a packet of tissues were in the front pocket. Several pens, styluses, and a comb. Opening the main compartment, she reached inside and cleared her throat upon seeing the glass bottle. "This isn't water, Shane…"

He looked over as she pulled out the bottle of Jack Daniels. "Oh," he chuckled. "I'd almost forgotten about that."

"Hey, if you want to get drunk in your hotel room it's none of my business." Setting the bottle aside, she looked for the promised water, then sat back with a sigh. "No water."

"I wasn't planning on getting drunk." Giving up on his phone, Shane sat next to her and reached for the bottle. "Sometimes I like a drink or two before bed. And I hate hotel bars."

"Me, too," she murmured. Taking the bottle from him, she smoothed her fingers over the black and white label. "I had you down as the wine type, though."

"I enjoy a good wine, usually with dinner. And I love a good beer when I take in a game." His fingers were gentle over hers as he reached to remove the plastic seal. "And… When I'm trapped in an elevator with a beautiful woman, there's nothing better than my good friend Jack."

"Something tells me that drinking whiskey with you isn't in the job description…" she trailed, holding the bottle so he could unscrew the cap.

"I won't tell if you won't," he whispered conspiringly.


	8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

"God, it's so hot in here."

Shane nodded in agreement, glancing up from his phone to see Cat was folding a sheet of paper into a makeshift fan. He was reminded of the paper fans his sons always made, although he had never seen them so affected by heat. She spread the folds, then began to fan herself. A lock of hair wafted in the breeze, caressing her throat. She stopped fanning, let the paper fall to her lap as she wriggled out of her hoodie.

His gaze dropped from her throat to her chest. Which was a mistake, he realized. But he couldn't have looked away from the bouncing of her breasts if his life had depended on it. _Indiana – Indianapolis_. Did she not own a bra?

"Want some?" she asked.

 _Iowa_ … Des Moines, right? He was pretty sure it was Des Moines. Forcing himself to look elsewhere, he focused on the bottle of whiskey in her hand. "Yeah, sure." He slid down the wall until he was seated across from her.

"I think I've got…" She handed the bottle to him and began rummaging in her purse. "Crap, I guess I don't. I had an empty water bottle in here that I was refilling, but I guess I took it out when I was cleaning out my purse."

Her sigh filled the space, and he felt it brush his cheek. "No worries," he decided, uncapping the bottle and taking a sip. The warm liquor burned pleasantly down his throat and he handed the bottle back to her.

"As long as you're game," she decided, grasping the neck and lifting it to her lips.

He watched those lips pucker around the mouth of the bottle, and her throat move as she swallowed a gulp. _Kansas – Topeka_. When she lowered the bottle she released a soft hiss, and her fingers swept over her lips to clear them. _Kentucky - Frankfort. Louisiana – Baton Rouge. Maine – Augusta._

"Mmm… I'd prefer a little ice, but at least it's wet," she sighed.

Shane didn't say – or think it, really – much, but… _Fuck_. He completely blanked on the next states and their respective capitals. He blanked on pretty much everything but the curve of her throat. The wisps of hair that tickled it. The alluring tilt of her mouth as she resumed fanning herself. He groped for a topic that wouldn't include the heat of the small place, the wetness of the whiskey, or her dangerous curves. "Do you drink often?" he asked suddenly, folding his legs so he took up less room. "Whiskey, I mean."

Cat held up one finger and lowered the bottle after another swig. She handed it over to him, then produced a tissue from her purse. "Not often. I usually go for wine. But whiskey is good. I learned to love it back in college. I always had some cold or the sniffles or my allergies were going crazy, so Mom and Dad sent a lot of care packages. You know, chicken noodle soup and Vick's VapoRub and a new blanket to cuddle up with. And Dad always slipped a bottle of whiskey in. It didn't cure what ailed me, but it sure cleared everything up long enough for me to go to sleep. I just can't drink too much or I'll get sick."

"You have allergies?" This was good. Safe.

"Just pollen. It's not as bad now as it used to be, thank God. I would get migraines and stay in bed all day." The hand working the paper fan started to move faster. "My doctor and I finally found some medicine that works. What about you?"

"Me?" Shane wiped his lips with one hand. "I don't take any medicine."

"I mean allergies," she chuckled.

"Oh, that." He took another sip and passed the bottle back. "Latex."

"Really? Your pull out game must be strong. Or not," she added with a giggle. "You do have three kids."

"There are other ways to keep from having kids," he pointed out, leaning his head back. He should change the subject. Quickly.

"Well, yeah." She stretched out her legs, one foot bumping his knee. "Otherwise you'd have a dozen."

He tried to imagine himself as the father of twelve children. Would they all be boys? Or would he have been blessed with a girl or two? "I don't see that happening, Cat."

"Why not? You'll be able to make babies until you're a hundred," she insisted. She tipped the bottle back, this time not making the face she had with each previous sip. "I remember learning that in eighth grade and thinking it was so unfair. Women only have a relatively small window of opportunity to have children. The first few years we're too young, then most of us are either continuing school or starting careers. For some of us, when we decide the right time has finally come, her body has decided it's time to go into retirement. So we decide to hell with it and start taking in cats."

"I wasn't talking about my age," Shane groaned with a shake of his head, lips twitching at her speech. "Although I don't think I'd want to be in my seventies when my kids are finishing high school…"

"So what are you – Oh. The whole divorce thing."

Shane took the bottle when she held it out, but didn't take a drink. The liquor wasn't doing anything but making him warmer. And sleepy. "That's a major part of it. I don't know that I'll find someone else who'll want to have children with me."

"Ha." She shook her head. "I could name at least a dozen."

"Oh?"

"Yeah." She held up her useless cell phone. "As soon as I can get on Twitter."

He made a face. "I'd rather not pick the possible mother of my possible future children from Twitter."

"There's always Tinder. Or Match? And what's that place I see the commercials for all the time… eHarmony?"

"I'm not the online dating type, Cat."

"What type are you?"

"I know it probably sounds crazy, but I'm old fashioned."

She leaned forward, reaching for the bottle. "Old fashioned? Like meeting the parents before the first date?"

"Maybe not that old fashioned." He shook his head again. "It's been a lifetime since I dated. I wouldn't know how to go about it."

"Oh, it hasn't changed much. You see a woman you'd like to take to dinner and get to know better, right?" She paused to take a hearty swig of whiskey. "So you chat with her. Put out feeler questions to see if she'd like to know you better, too. Then you ask if she'd like to get dinner sometime. Some like to meet at the restaurant, and some are a little old fashioned and want to be picked up. Either way, you go out to eat. You don't order for them. You ask questions about life topics. Find out what they're passionate about. Find out if they have the same views on religion, politics, that sort of thing. And you answer when they ask questions. Then…"

"Then?" he prodded with a small smile.

"Then you see them to their car or drive them home. If you're feeling it, suggest you meet again. Just don't do that asshole move about calling and then never dialing the number. It's the best way to make a woman feel like a piece of unwanted shit and a complete dick thing to do. Be honest. Women like honesty. Walk her to the door. And then do whatever feels natural."

She'd moved closer while speaking, and he felt those earlier flickers of desire come to life again. Strands of hair clung to her neck. He could see the perspiration there and bit his tongue, ignoring the sudden urge to lick it away. She was obviously well on her way to being intoxicated. No matter how much he longed to do so, he couldn't make a move.

"Kiss her goodnight, but only if you want to. And don't do it hoping it'll lead to sex. If it truly went well, you'll know. And if it didn't… Hey, at least you ate dinner out."

"What about flowers?" he asked, amused by her speech. It was either tap into the amusement or travel through the wondering of how many dates she had been on.

"Oh, that comes later. If you feel a real connection and can tell that she had a great time – which, really, it's not hard, you just have to know what to look for – then you send her flowers a day or two later. Nothing ostentatious. Don't fill her office or her living room with roses, for example. But a small arrangement of carnations or lilies will go over nicely."

"Are you speaking from experience?" he murmured.

"Hardly," she snorted. "I haven't been on a _real_ date in a long time. But I listen to my friends. And I read _Cosmo_." She leaned back, lifting the bottle for a quick swig. When she lowered it he watched her tongue dart over her lips. "You know," she began, offering him the bottle, "despite my claustrophobia, I've always wanted to be locked in an elevator with a gorgeous guy."

Shane allowed himself a little bit of vanity and smiled. Unable to resist, he reached over and smoothed the hair from her neck. He immediately wished he hadn't, because her soft purr seemed to reverberate throughout his body. Bad idea, he thought, even as his fingers brushed over her throat. "And why have you always wanted to be locked in an elevator?"

"Mm… Everyone has fantasies, Shane."

"True," he relented. Her skin was warm and soft. "Not usually about the things they fear, though."

"In my fantasy it's not as hot as the seventh circle of Hell," she muttered.

"It's not that bad."

"However," she continued, reaching for her fan, "I guess two out of three isn't bad."

"Two out of three?" He watched her lift the bottle again, and took it from her after she'd taken a gulp.

"Mm-hmm. I'm locked in the elevator. One." She grinned and held up her index finger. "And there's a gorgeous guy with me. Two."

"What's the third bit?" he whispered.

"The lights go out and I can't see." Cat fanned herself. "Only feel. And it feels amazing."

Shane drew in a deep breath and looked to the ceiling. "Cat."

"Hmm?"

"I think you're a little drunk."

"Just a smidge," she agreed, surprising him by shrugging her shoulders and lying back. "How long have we been in here?"

He opened his mouth to protest when she propped her foot on his knee, but pressed his lips together instead. Leaning to retrieve his phone, he checked the time. "Just over an hour."

"Do you think anyone misses us?"

There was an overdramatic tone in her voice that caused him to chuckle. "We're in an elevator, not on a deserted island."

"I hope the island has whiskey. Hey!" She sat straight up, grabbing his arm. "In movies there's always an access panel in the top that the star shimmies through to get to safety."

"Yes, but this is hardly a movie…" He watched, bewildered, as she scrambled to her feet. Despite her tipsiness, she was steady, and he reluctantly stood as well. His gaze remained on her while she stared up at the ceiling of the elevator car. Slowly turning his attention upward, he shook his head. "I don't see a panel, Cat."

"This is bullshit," she groaned. "I've got a hot date in my room and I'm missing it all."

At those words, Shane froze. He hated the image of her welcoming someone into her room. Wearing that negligee that he thought of at the wrong times. Dragging his tongue over his lips, he continued to look up. "Hot date?"

"Well, a hot date to me. Which is a bubble bath, a couple episodes of _I Love Lucy_ , and a chapter or two of Agatha Raisin."

"You mean Agatha Christie?" Relieved by her idea of a hot date, he released the breath he'd been holding.

"No, Raisin. It's a fun little mystery series set in England about a woman that retires early and moves to a quaint village. And she keeps tripping over dead bodies. Then she solves the mystery, usually by blundering her way through it. But they're good reads." She huffed, sinking back down to the floor. "We're going to be in here all night aren't we?"

"I'm sure we won't. Someone is bound to have noticed that both elevators aren't working."

"True… But they may not realize we're in here. They could put it off until morning." She grabbed the whiskey bottle and eyed its contents. "They could—"

"Cat…"

"Sorry." Removing the cap, she took a sip. "I'm just a little drunk and a lot sleepy."

Sitting next to her, he sighed and stretched out his legs. He reached for the bottle, took the cap from her, and stowed it in his bag. "It's going to be okay, Cat."

"I know," she promised, flashing a brief smile. "I'm just glad I'm stuck in here with you and not someone like… Someone not nice."

"Do you want me to be a jerk?" he offered. "Because I can try."

"Oh please," she snorted, letting her head droop against his shoulder. "You couldn't be a jerk if your life depended on it."

"Yeah, I can." He could smell her shampoo.

"You haven't been a jerk to me, and I've been working for you for…" One hand waved in the air before falling to her lap. "For however long."

"I'm just lulling you into a false sense of security." He shifted, drew in a deep breath, and slowly tucked his arm around her. _Maryland…_

"Mmm." She rubbed her cheek on his shoulder. "It's working, because right now you're the best boss ever. Much, much better than Eric."

"Eric?" he echoed.

"That asshole," she muttered. "You're nothing like him."

He could hear, feel, and almost taste the bitterness she held towards Eric. Drawing in a breath to ask more questions, he instead lurched when there was a loud clang from below. His arm instinctively tightened around Cat.

"What the hell was that?" she whispered, bracing a hand on his chest.

"I don't know, but I hope it was good."

"It's good," she squealed as the car dipped. There was creaking, and the whine of the cable. "It is good, isn't it?"

Shane felt the elevator sway before it began to descend. It moved in fits and spurts, stopping suddenly then jerking downward. Then, miraculously, it went down smoothly, and he saw the panel above the door light up to indicate where they were. The stopping at the lobby was abrupt.

"Shit," Cat groaned, sitting upright. Her hand moved to rest on her abdomen. Immediately after, her other hand jerked up to cup over her mouth.

"Are you—" His question was drowned out by the door sliding open. Blinking at the sight of several people waiting just outside, he dropped his arm from Cat and got to his feet. He reached to help her up, concerned by the sudden pastiness of her complexion. "Cat—"

She lurched to her feet, barely making it out of the elevator before her shoulders heaved.

Then, to everyone's horror, she bent over and vomited into the potted palm.


	9. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

"Hey champ, how you feeling?"

Cat groaned, not lifting her head from the crook of her arm. It had taken every bit of what little energy she possessed to get out of bed, shower, and dress. How she'd made it downstairs to the hotel's restaurant, she would never know. She only remembered sinking into a chair and slumping forward. She hadn't even gotten anything to drink.

"That bad, huh?"

Groaning again, she tilted her head and peeked at the person speaking to her. Sami. Immediately she recalled the last time she had seen him. At least, she was pretty sure it was him. He'd been there when she'd thrown up. With Dean. And Cesaro, who had kindly handed over a handkerchief and retrieved her a bottle of water. It had been Cesaro and Dean that escorted her upstairs, neither complaining when she insisted on taking the actual stairs. Sami had been there. Right?

He pulled out the chair across from her and sat down. There was concern in his eyes and she remembered.

He _had_ been there the night before. Looking at her worriedly while she dumped her purse to find her key. Pressing his lips together when she giggled about having three guys taking her to her room. And looking beyond disappointed when she invited them all in for a drink. None had taken her up on the offer, thankfully, but she vaguely recalled Dean saying that he'd take a rain check for when she was sober. God, what Sami must think… She saw a coffee cup sliding across the table towards her and tentatively lifted her head.

"No offense, Miss Watson, but you look terrible."

"Yeah." She knew that already. She hadn't bothered with makeup. Her hair was still damp from her shower, and she'd scraped it up into a ponytail. Catching the aroma of coffee coming from the cup, she held her breath. Waited for her stomach to protest the idea of anything entering her body. When it didn't, she eased herself upright and reached for the cup with both hands. "Thanks."

"I figured you'd need it, after last night."

"Please, don't remind me," she requested, taking a tentative sip. It wasn't as sweet or as creamy as she would have liked. All that mattered at the moment was the caffeine, though, so she took another sip.

"I won't. But don't be surprised to see a potted palm on your hotel bill."

"A what?"

"Potted palm." He tilted his head. "You don't remember?"

"Honestly, no."

"You kind of…" He gestured vaguely, and looked pained when she didn't speak. "…Into the potted palm…"

"I…" She struggled to remember anything about a potted palm. Her stomach twisted slightly and she slipped one hand over it, masking a groan with a cough. "Are you saying that I puked into one?"

"Yep."

"Shit," she moaned. "I'm never taking another elevator as long as I live."

"Just because one malfunctioned doesn't mean they all will." Sami cleared his throat. "I was worried about you."

Aww, she thought, momentarily forgetting her headache and queasy stomach. "Really? I was fine. Shane kept me from going insane."

"By getting you drunk?"

"What? No!" she insisted. A bit too vehemently, she realized when an invisible strongman brought a sledgehammer down on her head. Wincing, she reached to rub at her aching temples. "It was the only thing to drink, and… I'm not going to defend myself, Sami."

"No, no, no, you don't have to," he quickly assured.

"I feel like I should, though." She wrinkled her brow. "Last night was a fluke. I don't go around getting drunk all the time. In fact, until last night, I hadn't been drunk since college."

Why did he look so relieved? Had he been that bothered by the fact she got drunk while trapped in an elevator? She would think that her being trapped was more worrying than her drinking to pass the time.

"I'm guessing you aren't up to breakfast?" he asked after a moment.

Breakfast. The idea of putting anything more than coffee down her throat caused her stomach to churn. "You're guessing right. Hopefully I'll be able to get something down at lunchtime, though. It's been a few years, but the last time I was hungover… Oh," she breathed in realization. "Our date. I'm so sorry—"

"We'll make it up," he said. He smiled. Not his usual smile. At least, she didn't think it was his usual smile.

"Definitely." She took another sip of coffee and looked at the time. She had no pressing engagements. Her morning was clear. But she felt the need to make an excuse so she could escape the awkward conversation. Or was it just awkward for her? Moistening her lips, she sat up straight then nudged her chair back so she could stand. "I should go check in with Shane."

* * *

"Thanks again for driving them out here," Shane said as he offered a bottle of water to his guest.

Marissa shook her head. "I didn't mind. The boys were right: this is a nice apartment."

"We'll only be here another two weeks." Leaning against the counter, Shane looked out into the living room at all the things he needed to start packing. Suddenly he felt tired. Too tired to think about packing, at least. "Next time you come up, it'll be to the new house."

"Have they picked out their rooms?" she asked. "Every time Rogan tells me about the new house, he's telling me about a different room."

"They have to make a decision this week. I'll take them out tomorrow evening."

"Are you sure you don't want me to take them to my parents? What with the move and—"

"I want them here, Marissa." He wouldn't trade the time spent with his sons for anything. Not even less stress. It would work out. "Besides, I need their help packing and carrying boxes."

She shook her head in that way he knew meant she thought he was insane. "I wanted to thank you."

"What for?" he asked, pushing away from the counter when she reached for her coat. He instinctively reached to help her on with it, but dropped his hands to his sides. Then, with a sigh, he caught the coat and held it up for her. She flashed him a smile and turned to face him.

"For being so…good through all of this."

"I should be thanking you, too." He smiled, and saw his own sadness mirrored in her eyes. It hadn't been easy, coming to terms with the fact that his marriage was over. Even though he had known from that first all-night conversation that it was the right thing to do. But here he was, in the midst of a divorce. On impulse, he pulled her in for a hug. And realized, once her arms were around him to return the embrace, that it no longer felt the same. She was leaving and there were no pangs of heartache that had always started up before. No quick kisses between goodbyes.

"I'll see you in a couple of weeks," she murmured as they broke apart. "You've got all of the hotel numbers?"

"On my phone," he promised. "Enjoy your trip."

"Two weeks in Hawaii? Enjoy isn't a strong enough word."

"Don't forget to steal a volcanic rock for Rogan."

"I know, I know."

There were a few more quick instructions, then she called the boys from their room so she could hug and kiss them goodbye. And then she was gone.

"What's for dinner?" Declan asked, already opening the fridge.

"Pizza?" he suggested, brows lifting when they answered with groans. "Mexican? Italian? Thai? Chinese? Burgers?"

Each suggestion was shot down, and he realized that Declan was pulling things out of the fridge and placing them on the counter. Onions. Peppers. Mushrooms. Steak.

"Cheesesteak?" he guessed, pushing up his sleeves. He hadn't planned on actually cooking. His diet consisted mainly of whatever meat he could throw in the oven, and either salad or a mix of vegetables he could easily fry up. But cheesesteak?

* * *

The aroma of beef and cheese and fresh bread permeated the interior of her car, but Cat studiously kept both hands on the wheel, lest she reach into one of the bags and steal a handful of French fries. Glorious, delicious, perfectly cooked French fries with just the right amount of salt…

"Should have gotten an order to eat in the car," she muttered as she parked outside of Shane's building. Gathering the bags, she climbed out, hissing as the wind cut through her clothes. "Should have kept my coat on," she grumbled, bumping the door closed with one hip. "Probably should have ignored his call…"

No, she couldn't have done that. Shane rarely called her after business hours when they were in Stamford, but when he did it was important. And nothing was more important than three hungry kids.

"Who burns cheesesteak?" she asked the sidewalk as she hurried to the entrance. The man behind the desk was the same man who had been there that night she'd ended up having dinner with Shane. To her surprise, he recognized her and gave her a nod as she crossed to the elevator. She poked the button for Shane's floor with the knuckle of her pinkie and wondered, again, how Shane had managed to burn dinner.

"You're a lifesaver," Shane said by way of greeting when he opened his door. He took the bags from her, nodded for her to come inside.

"I have questions," she announced, closing the door behind her. She caught the acrid smell of burnt food in the air and wrinkled her nose. "First, who burns cheesesteak? It's one of the easiest things to cook in the world."

"Well, I—"

"Second, why didn't you order in a pizza or something? I didn't mind coming out, because I was about to go get dinner of my own, but really? What if I hadn't answered?" She walked into the kitchen and stared at the pan resting on the rear burner of the stove. "Third, you didn't even put hot water in it to make it easier to clean? Well, okay, that one you can skip, because with smoke and ruined dinner, cleaning the mess isn't foremost in your mind. But—"

"Cat?" Shane interrupted, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Turning from the stove, she opened her mouth to inform him that cleaning up the mess wasn't in her job description. Neither was getting him food, but she would let that pass. But, seeing the three boys standing alongside him, all staring at her, she quickly closed her mouth and swiveled her gaze to Shane. "Hmm?"

"I'd like you to meet my sons. Declan, Kenyon, and Rogan. Boys, this is Miss Watson."

"Hi," she greeted softly. Her cheeks flamed, and she saw the tallest boy's lips twitch with suppressed laughter.

"Hi," they chorused. Despite the age and height differences, they had identical grins.

Great, she hadn't known them five seconds and they already thought she was a fool. "Sorry about the outburst," she said to Shane. Then, seeing the scorch marks on the stovetop, she gasped. "There was an actual fire?!"

"Just a little one!" Shane defended, motioning for the boys to sit at the counter. Cat stepped away from the horror that was the stove and moved to help him spread the huge sandwiches and abundant servings of fries out for his sons. She kept quiet, doling out paper napkins while Shane fixed their drinks. Then, when Shane pulled one of the two remaining bags to him, she cleared her throat.

"How little?"

"Miniscule. Barely worth mentioning." He drew out the cheesesteak and began peeling back the paper wrapping.

"It almost touched the ceiling!" a tiny voice chirped.

Looking to the boys, Cat saw the youngest, Rogan, grinning while cramming several fries into his mouth. "The ceiling, huh?" she drawled, slowly turning her head to look at Shane.

"He's exaggerating."

"Nuh-uh," Rogan challenged, shaking his head. "I don't know what that means!"

Cat laughed at the boy's logic, leaning to push his napkin closer to his hand. "The ceiling? Tell the truth, did your dad scream?"

"No, he shouted god—"

"Bless America!" Shane finished, cupping a hand over his son's mouth. "I said God bless America – What are you two laughing about?"

"Nothing," Declan and Kenyon answered between chuckles.

"Eat your dinner," Shane grumbled, tousling each boy's hair in turn. He met Cat's gaze above their heads. "You, too."

"Do you have any lemon?" she asked suddenly, looking at the pan on the stove.

"I might have one. Why?"

"Lemon slices in the pan while it soaks in warm water will make it easier to clean. Rubbing one on the stovetop will get rid of the scorch marks. And if you have any left, putting them in a pan and simmering them – simmer, not boil – will take away that burnt smell in the air." Unwrapping her sandwich, she was about to take a bite when Shane gestured to the living room. With a nod, she grabbed her food and carried it to the couch. "And you should use some cleaner on the cabinet doors and the walls. Smoke clings to it and can stain it, not to mention leaving an odor. Did the smoke alarm go off?"

Shane's expression was sheepish as he brought her a can of diet soda. "I, um, may have hit it with the broom."

"May have?" she mused.

"I hit it with the broom," he admitted with a sigh, sitting down and placing his food on the coffee table.

"You broke it," Kenyon called from the counter.

"I didn't break it," Shane was quick to tell Cat, who muffled a laugh into her napkin. "I just knocked the battery out."

Cat nodded, mouth full of cheesesteak. There was a companionable silence as they ate, broken occasionally by chatter from the boys at the counter. She saw a French fry sail through the air from Rogan to Declan, but said nothing. It sailed back, joined by one from Kenyon, and Rogan's laughter filled the apartment.

"Boys," Shane called, and Cat recognized the fatherly tone.

"I'm done," Rogan announced, hopping off the stool with ease. Cat glanced over and saw him reaching to wipe his hands on his jeans. When he saw her looking, he froze, then stepped back to get a napkin. She gave him a conspiring smile, and watched him dart into one of the bedrooms.

Declan was next, and Cat saw more than a little bit of Shane in him as he gathered his trash and wrapped the remainder of Rogan's sandwich. Kenyon took the longest, slowly munching on his fries even after she and Shane had finished.

"Declan, go ahead and get in the shower." Shane managed to make the parental order not sound like one, his tone one of suggestion. With a nod, the oldest boy ventured into the bedroom. Within moments, Rogan exited, using the tail of his shirt to dry his hands. Shane gave him a glance, then pointed to the bedroom. "Pajamas."

"You seem to have everything in order here," Cat observed, carrying her trash to the kitchen. "Is it safe for me to leave? Or are you planning on cooking again?"

"You think you're so funny." He rolled his eyes, and pulled the remains of Kenyon's dinner away from the boy. "Teeth."

"I do, actually," Cat answered primly, smoothing the front of her sweater. Taking the half a sandwich from him, she wrapped it and put it in the fridge. "Kenyon's is on the middle shelf, Rogan's is at the bottom, okay?"

"Thanks. And no, I'm not planning on cooking again tonight."

Cat squatted down to open the drawer in the bottom of the fridge. "Two lemons," she told him, taking them out and placing them on the counter.

"Slice and soak, slice and rub, slice and simmer," he rattled off.

She chewed on her bottom lip, watching him begin to scrape the burnt remains of his cooking into the trash. Hearing one of his sons call him from the bedroom, she sighed and reached for the pan. "You take care of them, I'll do this."

"Are you—"

"Go." She shooed him away. Pushing up the sleeves of her sweater, she got to work.

He was gone an awfully long time. She didn't really notice, not until she looked at the clock and saw it was after nine. Wiping the stovetop clean with a fresh sponge, she leaned to rinse it out and reached for the clean dishtowel.

"I'm so sorry," he blurted when he came out of the bedroom. Reaching behind him to close the door, he crossed to the kitchen.

Cat noticed spots of water on his shirt, and a light smear of toothpaste on his cheek. "No problem," she promised, drying her hands on the dishtowel. "Perfect timing, in fact. I just finished."

"You really are a lifesaver," he sighed, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand. He made a sound of disgust when he saw the toothpaste, and stepped around her to rinse his hands in the sink. "I had to help Rogan with his bath. And it's like pulling teeth to get Kenny to brush his."

"If you pulled them, you wouldn't have to fight him to brush them anymore…" Handing over the dishtowel, she chuckled when he groaned. While he dried his hands, she turned off the stove. "It wouldn't hurt to leave this little pot out overnight."

"It doesn't smell as bad in here." He draped the dishtowel over the edge of the sink and sighed. "Thank you so much, Cat. All three of them were set on cheesesteaks. With the smoke and everything, I didn't dare leave in case it set off an alarm in the hall. And… I knew you wouldn't make fun of me if I called you."

"I'd never make fun of you. Tease you a little, yeah, but I won't bring it up every time you're near a kitchen for the rest of your life," she promised with a smile. Seeing the toothpaste was still on his cheek, she grabbed the towel. "But I really should get going."

"I didn't realize it was so late…" His voice trailed as she leaned to clear his cheek. "Thank you so much, Cat."

"It's fine," she murmured, giving his cheek another swipe to make sure she got it completely clean.

"Thanks," he said again, so softly she thought she must have imagined he'd said it.

Growing aware of how close she was to him, she stilled. She could just feel the steady pounding of his heart. When he inhaled, she felt his chest expand. And when he exhaled, she felt the warmth of his breath on her forehead. Slowly she lifted her gaze to find him staring down at her. She knew she should move away. Knew she should say goodnight – goodbye – and get her keys and leave. Knew she should quell the heat starting to flicker deep inside her. But she was immobilized by the sudden longing. The longing she saw mirrored in his eyes.

She didn't know she was holding her breath until his fingers grazed her cheek and the air stuttered out of her lungs. The light touch was like a spark. The very tips brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, brushed over her jaw. Closing her eyes in an attempt to ward away the desire, she mentally cursed herself as she released the towel and lightly clutched his wrist. Then, damn her, she stepped closer.

The bedroom door opening was like a shot in the night. In an instant, Cat was at the opposite end of the kitchen, head lowered, groping for her keys on the counter.

"Dad, is it alright if I play a little Call of Duty?" Declan asked.

"Sure." Shane was intently studying the contents of the fridge. "Set it up, I'll play with you."

"Sweet."

"I'm off," Cat announced, hoping her voice didn't sound as strained to Declan as it did to her. "Great meeting you, Declan. I'll see you soon."

"Bye, Miss Watson. Thanks again for the dinner."

"Dinner," Shane blurted, closing the fridge door with more force than necessary. "How much do I owe you?"

She waved him off, keys jangling. "Nothing. My treat."

He followed her to the door, and reached around her to disarm the alarm. Cat thought he was standing closer than needed, but said nothing. The closeness of him – solid and warm – was comforting. His hand brushed her arm, accidentally she was certain, and then he was opening the door.

"I'll see you at the office," she said as soon as she was in the hall, resolving to end the evening on a professional note. Not, she thought, tugging down the sleeves of her sweater, that anything about the evening had been professional. That line had probably been crossed long ago.

"Cat."

Damn the man for being able to make her name sound so…wonderful. "Thanks for letting me meet your boys. They're not quite the little angels you described, but they're pretty good kids."

"Cat…"

She finally looked at him. "It won't happen again."

"Nothing happened."

"Exactly." She was nervous now. She had to go. Or she would end up doing or saying the wrong thing. "And nothing will happen again."

He said nothing. The longing that had mirrored her own was still evident in his eyes, and she did her best to ignore it.

She said goodnight, turned, and walked away. But the longing followed her all the way home. Into her apartment. Into the bathroom. Into the shower. And, once she managed to fall asleep, into her dreams.


	10. Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

"So," Stephanie greeted as she slid into the seat next to Shane, "I assume you're recovered from last week?"

Shane glanced up from the tail end of the lanyard he was holding taut so Kenyon could weave the plastic strings. The kit it had come from was one of many things Marissa had packed to keep the boys occupied. "What? Oh, the elevator. I was fine."

"Mm-hmm." His sister looked to Kenyon, who was almost finished. "And Miss Watson?"

"She's fine…" He sent her a look, then turned his attention back to his son. The lanyard was almost finished.

"Where is she?" Stephanie asked. "I haven't seen her today."

"Miss Kitty took Rogan to get his backpack fixed," Kenyon provided, slipping the lanyard from his father's grasp. Holding it up, he smiled. "Thanks, Dad."

"Miss Kitty?" Stephanie repeated, raising one eyebrow.

"Her and Rogan had a fight about how she's not a cat but everyone calls her Cat," the boy explained, pushing the lanyard into the pocket of his jeans. "So now we all call her that. Can I go watch them play video games, Dad?"

Shane nodded, knowing that Declan was already ensconced in the room with Xavier Woods and some of the other guys that were filming for Woods' gaming channel. "Stay out of the way."

"I will," he promised, already out the door.

"Miss Kitty," Stephanie mused, lifting her bottled water for a sip.

"She doesn't mind." Shane had asked several times to make sure, finally deciding she was too young to remember the character from _Gunsmoke_. Or maybe she just didn't mind the connection.

"I hope you're not overworking her," she said. "After all, babysitting your boys wasn't in her job description."

Neither was bringing food to him and his sons and staying to clean up his mess, he thought ruefully. Stretching his legs out in front of him, he sighed. "She's not being overworked. And trust me, I've asked a million times if the boys were too much work for her. She insisted they're not. Call me crazy but I believed her."

"Do they like her?" Stephanie asked, glancing at her phone when it buzzed.

"I guess."

"Shane… They're your boys, you should know by now whether they like her or not."

"They seem to have a healthy respect for her." When Stephanie rolled his eyes, he groaned. "What do you want me to do, ask them flat out if they like her?"

"Well it would be a nice start!"

"She's works for me, Steph. Whether they like her or not isn't important. As long as they're polite and treat her with repsect—"

"God, you sound _just_ like Mom."

Shane grinned. "No wonder I'm her favorite."

Her hand landed on his bicep in a sharp blow. "Miss Watson and the boys aren't why I wanted to speak to you, though."

"Do I want to know why?" he asked with a sigh, catching her hand in his and giving it an affectionate squeeze.

"Probably not, but you'll listen to me anyway." Stephanie smiled her most dazzling smile. The one Shane knew from past events that most men couldn't resist. Their father. Her husband. Even his own sons weren't immune to it. "Since things with Candi didn't work out…"

Shane's head fell back against the wall.

"Through no fault of yours, I'm sure," she continued, "I've decided that me finding women isn't the proper plan of action."

"You think?"

She pinched her lips together and ignored him. "I've thought and thought, and I finally came upon a perfect solution."

"Leaving me alone?" Shane asked hopefully.

She pretended she hadn't heard him. "What you need is a pool of women to choose from."

"Stephanie—" Shane held up both hands before she could argue her point. "I know you have the best of intentions. I do. But I'm not ready to get into another relationship at this point."

"It doesn't have to be a relationship, Shane. It's called looking around and seeing what's out there. And nowadays all you have to do is download an app and—"

"I'm not choosing a potential date based on a three-sentence profile and a blurry picture."

"What are you afraid of?" she asked softly, eyes losing some of their fire.

Sighing, he began to shake his head. "I'm not afraid—"

"You are. You're scared to death to even think about seeing someone that isn't Marissa. How long has she been seeing Thomas now?"

"It's Timothy, and they've been seeing each other for two months. But it's not serious." It probably was, but he was able to feel just a little bit better about himself by pretending it wasn't. The worst part was that he didn't feel jealous. And he wasn't even sure he would have been jealous if Marissa had been seeing another man before the divorce papers had been filed. The tiny, conservative part of him was relieved that she hadn't, that she and Timothy hadn't been remotely romantic until after, but the realistic part of him knew it wouldn't have hurt before, either. He just wanted her to be happy. And he may have been a tiny bit jealous that she had found someone so quickly.

"Shane." Stephanie's voice was a gentle murmur. "I know it hurts."

"But it doesn't," he said honestly. "That's the real bitch of it all."

"Then tell me why—"

"Dad! Look what Miss Kitty got me!" Rogan's voice rang down the corridor, reminding Shane that he'd been having a private conversation where anyone could have overheard. Turning his attention to his youngest son, he smiled as Rogan rushed up, holding a brand new backpack that bore the TapOut logo. "She said I'm a big boy now and I need a bigger backpack. It's got so many pockets! I can carry everything!"

Shane looked to Cat, who was coming towards him at a slower pace than his son. "Did you tell Miss Kitty thank you?" he asked, still watching Cat. When she drew close enough he could see her face and meet her gaze, he was surprised to see a delicate blush coloring her cheeks. Each time she had looked at him since meeting for their flight early that morning, she had blushed. "Rogan?"

"I did," Rogan said distractedly, having turned to show his aunt the new backpack.

"He did," Cat promised. She greeted Stephanie, then remained standing, hands clasped behind her back. "I know you have a little free time until your next appointment, so I was wondering if I could take my break now?"

"Sure, go ahead," Shane said with a smile. "Thanks again for taking him."

"No problem at all. I'll see you in an hour."

After telling Rogan she would see him later, she turned and headed off. Shane watched her go, blaming himself for her shift to complete professionalism. There had been few quips since their flight had left Stamford that morning. Little more than a quick chuckle at his jokes. And she had kept at least three feet between them. It was his fault, really. He shouldn't have… His thoughts faded when, as though knowing he was watching, she turned to look back at him just before disappearing around a corner.

He really shouldn't have almost kissed her. Mentally kicking himself yet again, he dragged a hand over his face and pushed to his feet. He probably shouldn't have called her to bring their dinner in the first place. He was a grown man, he should have been able to deal with the tragedy on his own. But he hadn't, and so she had come. And she had laughed with his kids, teased him as effortlessly as she had since they'd met, sat next to him to eat, helped clean the mess he'd created. He had enjoyed every minute of it, even her teasing about the fire, because there was just something about her that had calmed him. Then she had leaned in to wipe his cheek clean, and all he had been able to think about was how beautiful and warm and kind she was. How his heart seemed to forget how to beat normally when she was nearby. How soft her skin was, when he'd finally touched her. He could vividly remember the way her face had softened. Her blue eyes had widened, just a little bit. He could still feel her hand around his wrist.

If it hadn't been for Declan, he probably would have kissed her. No, he thought, asking Rogan if he wanted to go play in the ring. He definitely would have kissed her. Thinking of state capitals hadn't helped. He'd gotten through the M's and N's and all the way to Pennsylvania in those brief, brief moments and they hadn't helped in the least.

 _"It won't happen again."_

Not that anything that could be remotely called an "it" had happened in the first place. Muttering that he'd see Stephanie later, he let Rogan lead the way down the hall, aware of his sister's intent gaze on him.

* * *

Cat slipped her hand into Sami's as they strolled the arena's concourse. When he had called her earlier she had suggested the walk if he had time. To her surprise, he had readily agreed. And then he had texted her that he had an hour free. They had stopped by the merchandise table, where he'd chatted easily with the men setting it up. And, somehow, when they'd walked off, she had a bag with a few new shirts in it.

One of the concession stands was open, the workers behind the counter stacking cups and filling the air with the aroma of spices. They walked on, the conversation light and undemanding. Sami was telling her about a concert he'd gone to when they began climbing the stairs to the second level. Cat tried not to let on that she had never heard of the artist, because Sami had obviously had a great time at the show. An arena employee passed them, slowing long enough to get a look at Cat's pass before continuing on. She supposed the fact that Sami wore a polo with the WWE logo embroidered on the chest passed as his credentials.

She wasn't sure how, but they ended up in a small alcove in front of doors leading into the arena. One of the doors was open and she could hear the sound of a body falling in the ring as she and Sami simultaneously slid down to sit on the floor. Bracing her elbows on her bent knees, she smiled at him. "Does this count as a date?"

He chuckled. "Not in my book."

"Thank goodness, because I would have expected at least a hot dog."

"Sorry to say, but I'm fresh out."

He looked at her, and she smiled again. "I don't need a hot dog to have a good time, Sami."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"What's your favorite color?" she asked suddenly.

Confusion flashed on his face, then he smiled. "I don't know… Red probably. Why?"

"Just wondering."

"What's yours?"

"I don't really have one. But I guess since most of my clothes are that color… Black."

"Are you still excited about getting to the UK tour in a few weeks?"

"Are you kidding? I've already started to pack." It was partially true. She had gotten out her bigger suitcase and put it in the center of her bedroom. And she had gotten her passport out. "Is it different touring there?"

"A little. Instead of rentals, we ride buses. Which is a bit of a relief because you don't have to drive. But at the same time you get some people who are wide open when you want to sleep, or people grouchy and sleepy when you want to talk." He scratched his chin lightly. "Plus the fans are different. More excited because they don't see us as often, I think."

"What's your favorite place to tour?"

"Honestly? The Middle East."

She nodded, remembering his telling her that his family originally hailed from Syria. When the company took their shows to the countries in the Middle East, he was probably considered a hometown hero. And she knew he spoke fluent Arabic; she had even asked him to say some things for her.

"Miss Watson?"

"Cat," she told him, one corner of her mouth lifting.

"Cat," he repeated. He mirrored her half-smile.

It brought her attention to his lips. And before she could stop herself she was leaning closer. Just one kiss, she thought, relieved when his hand gently cupped her face. Their lips met gently. She inwardly sighed at the warmth, at the softness of his thumb lightly caressing her cheek. His lips moved against hers like a whisper. It was, she realized, hand grasping his shoulder to pull him closer, exactly as she had imagined his kiss would be. Gentle and sweet and chaste. And yet…

She pulled away, mentally taking stock. Her heart wasn't pounding or skipping beats, and she couldn't feel it racing. Her breathing was perfectly normal. Her stomach, butterfly-free. Pressing her lips together as she leaned back against the door, she stared straight ahead, and sensed him doing the same next to her.

Nothing, she thought. Not even a tingle. Confused, she looked to him. He appeared as unaffected as she. But she refused to give up. Turning to face him, she framed his face with her hands and pushed her lips to his. This time she allowed herself a taste, allowed her tongue to lightly stroke his. Defeated when her heart, lungs, and stomach remained unchanged, she broke the kiss and sat back.

"Well," he said after a moment of utter silence. He cleared his throat. "Ah…"

"Nothing?" she asked. Just to make sure.

He actually squirmed. "Honest?"

"Honest."

"Nothing," he sighed.

"Same here," she admitted, frowning. "Which is a shame. I like you."

"I like you, too." His hands moved through the air as he spoke. "But – and I mean no offense – I can't fake it."

"Neither can I." She propped her elbow on her knee and rested her chin on her hand. "So I guess this means… Friends?"

"Friends," he agreed with a chuckle.

"Buddies."

"Pals."

Feeling better, she actually smiled. "Thanks for letting me give it a go, Sami."

"No, no, I should be thanking you." He got to his feet, then held out a hand. "Not every day a pretty lady throws herself at me."

"I did not!" Cat snatched up her bag and let him pull her up. "It was just a kiss."

"A very good kiss," he promised. "Honestly, I worried there was something wrong with me for a minute there."

Laughing at the insinuation, she headed in the direction they had come. She wondered for a moment if she had waited would the result have been the same. Probably, she conceded while they trotted down the stairs. Handsome, gentlemanly, and personable as he may be, she realized that she hadn't necessarily wanted to kiss him, as much mush as she had just wanted to kiss someone. Anyone. Because for two days she had mentally relived a kiss that had almost happened. For two days she had longed to find out what _that_ kiss would have been like.

She and Sami parted ways as soon as they got backstage, Sami promising he'd see her later. She watched him go then turned to go to Shane's dressing room. When she entered she found it empty and with more than twenty minutes left on her break, flopped on the provided couch with a sigh.

"You sound like you've got the weight of the world on your shoulders," a voice called from the attached bathroom.

Cat opened her mouth to shriek, clapping a hand over it when she saw Shane step out of the open door. Glaring at him, she tried her best to relax. After a moment she lowered her hand and sat up straighter. One glance around the small room and she knew his sons were elsewhere.

"They're with Steph." Shane crossed to the couch and sat next to her. "What's wrong? And don't say nothing."

"Nothing," she said, just to be difficult. She would have sworn she heard him roll his eyes, and smiled. "Really, it's nothing, Shane. I just made a fool of myself."

"You? I don't believe it."

He was going to pester her until she told him. She knew he would. He was a bit stubborn. She had learned that about him. Keenly aware of how close he was, and the fact she could smell his cologne, she tried to be covert and slid an inch away from him. Not that it helped. His presence extended beyond a few inches. Pursing her lips, she boosted herself off the couch, praying that one of his sons would burst in or his phone would ring, or anything that would make it possible for her to avoid telling him. None of that happened, though, damn her luck, and she sat at the small table that doubled as his makeshift desk.

"Did something happen with Zayn?"

She jerked her head up, eyes wide, and saw the concern on his face. "No," she said, shaking her head. "I mean, something did, but not—"

"Did he hurt you?"

Surprised, she stared at him. "What? No!"

"Did you see him with someone else?"

Was it her imagination or did he sound almost hopeful? "God, no." She groaned, feeling her cheeks start to burn. She lifted her hands and covered her face, even though it was too late to conceal her mortification. "We just realized that we're destined to just be friends."

"How do you mean?"

Instead of answering, she sat back in the chair. After a few seconds she lowered her hands to find him still looking at her. His face still showed concern. His brow was furrowed, eyes trained on her. "I mean…" She waved one hand weakly. "You know the phrase 'it don't mean a thing if it ain't got that zing' right?"

"Of course."

"There ain't no zing."

"No zing?"

"Not even a hint of one."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm…Not," she realized softly. "It's better to find out before you start getting serious, isn't it? What if we'd just dated and had fun for a while and then I discover no zing?"

"What, exactly, do you mean by having a zing?" he asked.

"I…" She paused to put her thoughts into coherent sentences. "Maybe I'm crazy, but I want… Passion. I want the weak knees and crazy heartbeat and the shivers down my spine. I know it's probably unrealistic, but that's a zing to me."

"That sounds like a swarm of zings," he said softly.

"I guess I'd consider myself lucky if I had even one." Moistening her lips with her tongue, she looked at Shane and felt her cheeks flame yet again. No, she told herself, dropping her gaze to the floor. The shivers and crazy heartbeat and weak knees she'd felt the other night weren't actual zings. She refused to believe they were. They hadn't even kissed, for crying out loud. And he was her boss. Hadn't she learned her lesson about responding to possible zings with her superiors?

"May I ask a personal question?" Shane's voice was calm, quiet.

"Yes." May as well, considering they'd both stepped over the personal question line many times.

"Have you ever felt those zings?"

She should have said no. Sighing, she kept looking at the floor and crossed her legs. Then she uncrossed them and swiveled her gaze to the wall behind him. "Twice," she admitted.

"What happened?"

Her foot began to bounce, so she crossed her legs again. "The first time, I made a huge mistake. I like to think I learned my lesson from that, so I pulled away the second time. Because…" She drew in a deep breath. "I don't want to make that mistake again."

"But what if it turns out to not be a mistake?"

"Trust me, it would be a mistake." Getting to her feet, she finally looked at his face while moving toward the bathroom. Her steps faltered slightly upon seeing him lower his head slightly. Was he disappointed? Did he even have a clue that he was the second time? She hesitated just at the doorway, half-tempted to go sit next to him. But, resolved not to make another huge mistake, she slipped into the bathroom and closed the door.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**A/N: Happy birthday, Anon! (Rosie I think?)!**

Chapter Eleven

"Hey, Dad, it's almost seven thirty," Declan said as he entered Shane's bedroom.

Shane sighed and ran a hand over his hair. "I know."

"You wanted me to let you know." Declan sat on the edge of the bed. "Are you going on a date?"

"A date? No, no, it's not a date," he said hastily, smoothing the hair he'd ruffled. "It's just dinner."

"A dinner date."

"Dinner," Shane insisted. It hadn't been his idea, originally. All the blame went to Stephanie, who had signed him up for one of those god-awful dating apps she had been harping about. To his horror, she had completed his profile and let it loose across the world, where anyone could see that he was a recently divorced father of three. It screamed desperation to Shane, and he had flat-out refused to use the app on his phone. Of course, Stephanie being who she was, only a day had passed before he had downloaded the app and logged in. And, to his shock, he had found that women actually wanted to talk to him.

Rather, they wanted to talk to Brandon. Stephanie had used his middle name. And the photos she'd put up on his profile were ones of him from behind, most with the boys. Which, he was sure, probably made people thing he was a borderline Quasimodo.

Out of curiosity, and a longstanding need to make his sister happy, he had engaged in chats with a few. The first had told him in no uncertain terms that she was just looking for a casual hookup. The second was on the hunt for her true love. The third was in the country on a temporary work visa and was desperate to find someone that would marry her so she could get a green card. To his surprise, the fourth had said she just wanted to make friends.

Her name was Rose. Her profile said she had lived in New York for years. The picture of her wasn't of her at all, but was an artsy shot of a woman silhouetted against the sunset. She was new to the area, and apart from her job she only knew one of her neighbors and the barista at her favorite coffee place. Their chats had shown her to be humorous and intelligent. And, to her credit, she hadn't pressured him to meet immediately or exchange phone numbers. So after almost a week of chatting through the app, he had drummed up enough courage to ask her to dinner. Just dinner. She'd agreed, considering her schedule allowed, and they had arranged to meet at an Italian restaurant.

The reservations were made. They had a signal so they would know each other – he had reserved the table for two in the quietest corner of the restaurant. She was looking forward to it. He was looking forward to it.

But now, staring at himself in the mirror and seeing his eldest son's peculiar expression, he wanted to cancel.

"It's okay to date," Declan said. "Dad, I'm not a kid anymore."

Considering the boy still slept with the tattered old Pooh bear that he'd had since he was born, Shane doubted that statement, but knew better than to say so. Instead, he grunted and reached for his belt.

"I'm not," the boy repeated. "I knew you and Mom were having problems. I'm not stupid—"

"I have never said that you were," Shane pointed out. "And I've never thought it, either."

"I know." Declan smiled and walked over to sit on the dresser. "All in all, you're a pretty awesome dad, you know?"

Shane sighed and ruffled his son's hair. "I wasn't a hundred percent sure, so thanks."

"What's her name?" Declan asked, picking up a bottle of cologne and removing the cap to get a whiff.

"Rose."

"Is she divorced?"

He paused, thinking back. He was pretty sure she wasn't. Her profile hadn't mentioned it, and neither had she during their chats, when he'd brought up the fact that he was. "I don't think she is…"

Declan reached for another bottle of cologne. "Is she hot?"

"Declan," he groaned, taking the bottle from him. "Do you remember the rules while I'm gone?"

"No cooking, no movies above PG-13, don't answer the door, and call you if anything happens." Declan paused to think. "You'll be gone no more than two hours, we can eat anything in the snack cabinet, and no soda for Rogan."

"And?"

"And make sure Rogan brushes his teeth."

Shane nodded. He didn't understand why he was so nervous about leaving the boys alone. They'd been left alone – for less than an hour at the time – when they still lived in New York. And nothing had happened. He supposed the anxiety came from his date. Dinner, he reminded himself, pulling on his shirt. "Get the laundry out of the—"

"Daddy?"

He turned at the sound of Rogan's voice. Alarm bells started going off. Rogan hadn't called him 'Daddy' in months. His voice sounded off, too. And, when he saw the boy shuffling into his room clutching his favorite blanket, he saw his son's face was unusually white. "What's the matter?" he asked, moving forward to scoop him up. His lips bumped against a blazing forehead and he knew.

"I don't feel good." Rogan groaned and tucked his head on his father's shoulder. "I think I'm gonna…"

Shane turned to rush his son into the bathroom, lurching to a stop just inside the door when Rogan's body shuddered. Frozen, he could only hold the boy as he vomited. The sounds and smell caused his own stomach to curl.

"Whoa," Declan breathed, having followed to witness. "What did you eat that was blue?"

Rogan coughed, and Shane felt the mess slide down his back. "A blue raspberry sucker," he rasped.

"Okay," Shane said, pulling Rogan off him and gently placing him on the edge of the tub. He peeled off the ruined shirt and looked to Declan for help. "Get some towels… And bleach." Once he had headed off to do as requested, he knelt in front of Rogan and placed a hand to his forehead. "What hurts, buddy?"

"My stomach… And my head…" Rogan sniffled and wiped his arm across his mouth.

"Let's get your temperature, then we'll get you cleaned up and go from there, okay?" Shane kissed the boy's forehead. It was still blazing, and there was a thin coating of cold perspiration.

* * *

"You've got a date with who?"

Cat smiled in the direction of her phone, which was propped up on her dresser. Turning this way and that in front of the full-length mirror, she decided the little black dress looked nice. "His name is Brandon."

"How did you meet Brandon?" Kerry, her oldest sister, sounded suspicious. "At work?"

"No, not at work," Cat promised. "I finally gave in and tried out one of those dating apps. We connected on there."

Truth be told, she had only given in after Stephanie McMahon, of all people, had all but insisted she do it. She still wasn't sure if she had signed up because she halfway wanted to herself, or only to keep Shane's sister happy. But, sign up she had. Within days she had been matched with Brandon. Within days of being matched, she felt like they were on the fast track to…something. He came across as likeable. Intelligent. He had an uncanny ability to make her laugh. When he had suggested dinner, she had been ecstatic.

"A dating app?" Kerry groaned. "Really? Don't you know that only the most desperate, depraved people use those things?"

"Gee, thanks, sis," Cat deadpanned. Stepping into the pair of high heeled Louboutin pumps she had chosen to wear, she gave the hem of her dress a tug and moved to get a pair of earrings. "I'll update my profile and put that in. Desperate, depraved single woman seeking equal-minded man!"

"I didn't mean you – Shannon, sweetie, go help your sister set the table. But what do you know about him?"

"Well, he's divorced. He has three kids. He's originally from the area and just moved back—"

"Wait, divorced with three kids?" Kerry made a sound of disgust. "Why did they get divorced?"

"I'm pretty sure it's because his wife walked in on him cutting up the body of a hooker." Cat rolled her eyes. "We've only been chatting for a few days, sis. It's not like he opened with the reason behind his divorce."

"Three kids though. How old is he?"

Cat hesitated. Despite the fact they were on the phone, and despite the fact that Kerry was a safe hour and a half away from her, she could see the "big sister" look and groaned. "I don't know."

"God, he could be ancient."

"He's not. The pictures on his profile show him with three boys. I think. One of them has long hair and could be a girl…" She doubted it, though. The pictures had been of Brandon and his kids at the beach, at a Yankees game, at the Grand Canyon. She couldn't help but wonder why he hadn't shown his face. Maybe, like her, he'd been too nervous to do so. "Anyway, he's not ancient. He's probably late thirties?"

"Something must be wrong with him if he's on an app looking for someone. What if he's a rapist? Or a sex trafficker? Or—"

"Or what if he's like me and just wanted to meet new people?" Cat suggested, securing the silver hoops in her ears. Picking up her phone, she turned off the speakerphone and tucked it against her ear. "Stop worrying."

"He probably used someone else's pictures on his profile," Kerry muttered. "And don't tell me to stop worrying. I always worry about you. Ever since you up and moved to New York. Ever since you started seeing Chad—"

"Ever since I proved that I tend to fuck things up, I know," Cat groaned. Should she have put more makeup on? She hadn't wanted to overdo it. But it was too late to add more now. Throwing her lipstick and wallet into the small purse she'd dug out of her closet. "You'll be happy to know I'm not going to date anyone at work. Well, I was going to, but—"

"Who?" Kerry chirped.

"A really nice guy." She sighed, grabbing her keys off the dresser and leaving the apartment. "But there wasn't any… You know."

"Sex?"

"No!"

"He's gay?"

"No…"

"Impotent?"

"Kerry!"

"I don't know, what isn't there any of?"

"I can't explain it. I mean, I liked him. I still do. He's a nice guy. Handsome. A little quirky. Good figure. He's a wrestler, you know. But we kissed and…" She gestured even though her sister couldn't see. Falling silent, she maneuvered her car into a parking spot near the restaurant. Thirty minutes early. Maybe she was desperate after all.

"And?" Kerry prodded after two long moments of silence.

"I felt nothing. Neither did he."

"Then you must have done it wrong."

"Your support gives me life," Cat said breezily. "But no, I did it right. We even kissed again to be sure, and… Nothing."

"Okay. But surely he's not the only handsome, nice guy in the company?"

"Did you not just say you worried about me seeing the guy I worked with at my last job?" Cat heard the tone that indicated an incoming call. "Look, I've got to go. I need to get to the restaurant and I've got a call."

"I want details about this dating app stud first thing in the morning," Kerry insisted.

"I'll be sure and video the entire dinner just for you. Love you," Cat crooned before ending the call and switching to the one incoming. "Hello?"

"Cat. It's Shane. I know that I said I'd—"

"What's wrong?" she asked, brow furrowing. Shane had told her that he wouldn't call after hours anymore. Thinking back on the awkwardness of those few moments when he'd apologized for calling her and for the something-that-hadn't-happened, she frowned. He sounded anxious. "What happened?"

"Rogan's sick. And if you're not—"

"Does he have a fever?"

"A hundred and two. I—"

"Is he throwing up? Diarrhea?" Putting her car into gear, she drove away from the curb.

"He's thrown up twice. Nothing else. Could you—"

"Have you given him anything?"

"Just some ginger ale. Do you—"

"I'm out, I'll go by the drug store and pick up something for him," she offered. And she would go back and get some of her mom's chicken soup, which she kept in the freezer. Many a cold night during her childhood, bleary-eyed with fever and unable to keep anything else down, she had been soothed by the aromatic broth swimming with fresh vegetables, bits of tender chicken, and thin noodles. "Do you have anything at the house he can take?"

"No. I hadn't thought about it. I really—"

"Put a cool damp cloth on his forehead, and make sure he's wrapped up. I'll be there soon." She had plenty of time. Traffic was light, so she would be able to get to the drug store, to her place, to Shane's, and back to the restaurant before eight.

"Cat," he called before she could lower the phone.

"Yeah?"

"I… Thank you."

When she got to his building thirty minutes later, it was to find the door was slightly ajar. She eased it open and entered. Placing the bags on the island counter, she moved to close the door when Shane stepped into the kitchen. "Hey," she greeted softly. She could just hear the TV playing in the living room. "How's your patient?"

"Patients. Kenny's got a fever too," he sighed.

He looked exhausted. Frowning slightly, she impulsively moved closer and reached to press her palm to his forehead. Normal. "Just checking." Beginning to unpack the bags, she lined up the medicines on the counter. "I wasn't sure if he had other symptoms, so I grabbed a few different ones. I got some more ginger ale, too. And I ran home to get some of Mama's chicken soup."

"You didn't have to do that…"

"Mama's chicken soup is a miracle cure. Legend has it that she brought four girls from the cusp of death with just one bowl." Relieved to see his smile, she carried the containers of frozen soup to the counter next to the stove. "If they aren't perked up by tomorrow, I'll make some more for them."

"She trusts you with the recipe?" He was reading one of the boxes of medicine.

"It was the first thing I learned to cook." She looked around the kitchen. "Where are your pots?"

"Cabinet next to the stove. But Cat—" Shane cut off when she ducked to retrieve a pan. "Thanks for doing this, Cat."

"I don't mind." And she didn't. Earlier determination that she would avoid coming to his place had dissipated as soon as he'd called. Besides, he needed help. After shaking the frozen blocks into the pan and turning the stove on low, she turned away and shrugged out of her raincoat. "Where are they?"

"On the couch. Declan's hiding in his room to keep the germs away…"

He was staring at her. Glancing down to make sure her dress hadn't turned itself inside out, she headed into the living room. She took off her heels before crossing to the couch. Kenyon and Rogan were on opposite sides, both covered with blankets. Clicking her tongue in sympathy, she adjusted Rogan's blanket. "How you feeling, champ?"

"Ugh," the boy groaned. "Cold."

"I'm heating up some soup for you. It'll warm you up." Unable to resist, she smoothed his bangs from his forehead. "And your dad's getting something that will help your fever."

"Were you at a party?" Kenyon asked when she turned to adjust his blanket.

"No, just dinner."

"What did you eat?"

"Nothing. I'll get some soup when it's ready," she assured. "Do you want something to drink?"

"Dad said we could have ginger ale."

"Coming right up."

Going back and forth to fix them drinks and then bring them soup felt natural. Just as it felt natural to carry Rogan to his bed when he began to doze. He snuggled close to her as she carried him, and her heart gave a tug. Impulsively, she pressed a kiss to his forehead before tucking him into bed, then watched to make sure he was falling asleep before leaving the room. She left the door ajar in case he needed to call his father.

She walked right into Shane, who was coming out of the room across the hall. "He's asleep," she whispered. "Kenny?"

"Asleep." He stepped back so she could pass, and she thought she heard him sigh as she walked away.

In the living room, she gathered the empty cups and carried them to the kitchen. Shane took them and tossed them into the dishwasher, which he closed. Leaning against the counter, he heaved a sigh.

She looked at the time and inwardly cringed. She had been sure she would just bring the things Shane had asked for and gone back to the restaurant in time for dinner. Brandon had probably left long ago. She wondered if he'd sent her a message through the app criticizing her for standing him up. Groaning, she glanced at her purse.

"Something wrong?"

"I had a blind date," she muttered. She would look at her phone later. After she left. "I'd just gotten to the restaurant when you called… Oh well."

"Yeah, I had one too." He sighed. Dragging a hand over his face, he pushed away from the counter and opened the freezer door. She was surprised when he pulled out a pint of ice cream. Without a word, he popped off the lid and got a spoon from the drawer. When he set the carton on the counter she saw he'd actually grabbed two spoons. He nudged one in her direction and she stepped forward to pick it up.

"A blind date?" she asked.

"Yeah…" He nudged the carton closer to her. "Help yourself."

Strawberry. She stabbed her spoon into it. "Probably for the best that I skipped it," she muttered, wiggling the spoon so she got a good portion. "He seemed too good to be true."

"Probably so," he agreed, waiting for her to get her spoon out before getting some ice cream for himself.

"I mean he was on a dating site. That just screams something's wrong with him."

"Definitely a wife beater. Or he weighs like seven hundred pounds. Or he's got a micro penis…"

"And your date was probably a bleached blonde teeny bopper with a platinum card fetish and hates kids," she informed him, holding the spoon in her mouth for a long moment. She didn't like the surge of dislike she felt for whatever woman he had planned to go out with.

"So you're saying if I swipe my gold card between her tits she'll do anal?" he asked, eyes wide with innocence.

She snorted. "No. For that you have to swipe it down her ass crack and buy her a pair of Louboutins."

"Oh, really?"

"I'm just saying if a man buys me a pair of Louboutins, I'd be very open to anal." The words fell naturally out of her mouth, and she quickly looked to the ice cream as she scraped more out with her spoon. "But she probably thinks a backbreaker is what you have after a long night of sex, and a backstabber is a former friend who steals her man."

"You know…" he trailed, studying the ice cream on his spoon. He popped it into his mouth, holding up the spoon to indicate she should wait for him to finish. Then, tongue swiping his lips, he smirked. "If I'm swiping ass cracks and buying Louboutins, I want more than just anal."

"Well, I'm sorry," she huffed, tugging the carton closer to her. "Your assistant position is already filled."

"And yet… I still don't get anal…"

She gaped at him, then lightly punched his arm. "I think that's my cue to leave."

But she didn't want to go. She wanted to stay. To eat the ice cream with him and keep up the verbal teasing. She couldn't think of a reason to stay, though, and allowed herself another spoonful of ice cream before carrying her spoon to the sink.

He picked up the carton, and she heard his spoon scraping the bottom. "You—" He cut off and cleared his throat. "I really appreciate you helping out, Cat."

"I didn't mind at all. They're great kids," she told him, slowly tucking the cleaned freezer containers into her bag. "Even when they're sick."

"I know, but… Thank you." His spoon scraped inside the carton, and she watched it come out with the last bit of ice cream. To her surprise, he leaned across the counter and extended the spoon to her.

She parted her lips, unable to look away from his eyes as he fed her the ice cream. Telling herself that the shiver that rippled its way down her spine was from the coldness of the ice cream, she held her breath while he pulled the spoon away.

"Is it okay if I go check on them before I leave?" she asked softly when he'd straightened.

"Of course."

She did so, not daring to venture past the door to Kenyon's room. She could hear his gentle snores. She had a feeling he would rest comfortably through the night. Turning to peek in on Rogan, she was surprised to see his lamp was on. He was shifting around on the bed, so she tiptoed in. "Hey," she whispered, lightly placing a hand on his shoulder. "You okay?"

"Uh-huh." He wriggled around to face her. "Can't sleep."

"How about a story?" she offered. When he nodded, she adjusted his covers and sat on the edge of the bed. "You know how hot it gets in summer, right? Well, double that, and that's how hot it was that summer…"

* * *

Shane stepped out of his bedroom, expecting to find Cat in the living room getting ready to leave. Instead, he saw her discarded shoes were still where she'd kicked them off. Going down the hall to the boys' rooms, he wondered if one of them had needed more medicine. First he peered into Kenyon's room, then crossed to Rogan's.

To his surprise, Cat was sitting up in the bed, Rogan cuddled close. The lamp was on, and her head was tucked close to his son's as she talked softly.

"…the creek. Of course, only an idiot would think of doing that, right? So of course I thought of it." She was smiling, and so was Rogan.

Not wanting to disturb what was obviously an enthralling story, he stayed in the hall, leaning against the wall so he could listen in.

"My bike wasn't the best. It was old, and it didn't have fancy speeds and handlebar brakes, but you know what?"

"What?" Rogan asked in awe.

"I loved it. Because it was mine. One of Daddy's friends gave it to him and he fixed it up just for me. He painted it my favorite color and even recovered the seat. And he put streamers on the handlebars." She sighed dramatically. "It was probably my favorite bike that I ever had."

She went on, describing a hot summer's day and a babbling creek. And a crazy girl who decided she would jump the creek in her favorite bike. Smiling, Shane wondered how much of the story she was making up. But, knowing Cat, he had a sinking feeling that all of it was true. Especially the wicked gash in her leg and the broken arm.

"See these little white dots here? That's where they put the stitches. They had to go in and put screws in my bone."

"Wow!"

Shane grinned. If she was hoping to get Rogan to sleep, she was doing a poor job. He would be talking about injuries and scars all night long. But her voice grew soft as she told of how one else ever tried jumping the creek. And how every summer she went back to it…

Whispering. They were whispering. Tuned in to every noise in the room, he heard movement. Rustling bedsheets. Peeking in, he saw her bending over to kiss Rogan's cheek. His heart tugged painfully in his chest at the sign of affection. She switched off the lamp, then tiptoed out of the room, closing the door fully.

He was back in the living room already, pretending he'd been gathering the blankets from the couch. "Rogan okay?"

"He couldn't sleep so I told him a story. Here, let me get those."

She took them before he could protest, and he followed her to the small laundry closet. Eyes on her bare legs while she put the blankets in the wash and leaned to get the detergent, he wondered where on her leg the gash had been. Up high, he supposed, seeing no hint of scars on the portions of legs exposed to him. Or maybe it had been on the front…

"Can you get the detergent?" she sighed. "It's too high for me."

Chuckling, he stepped forward to get the box down. "It's not too high for me, and I'm the one that washes clothes."

"Yes, well, you're tall. I'm short."

Not too short, he thought. In her bare feet, she reached the center of his chest. When she put on a pair of those damned heels, she was probably close to his chin. Leaning to get the box for her, he instinctively braced his other hand on the edge of the washer. And froze at the feel of her body pressed to his. _Rhode Island – Providence_. _South Carolina – Columbia. South Dakota – Pierre_ … He inhaled, drinking in the scent of her hair, and held his breath when he felt her wriggle.

Fuck, he thought, dropping the box down on the lid of the washer. She tilted her head and he saw her parted lips, her widened eyes. Not in fear, he realized with a surge of relief. Surprise. Longing. Desire? He knew he felt all three, and then some, just as plainly as he could feel his jeans growing tight. His mind swirled with images of her turning around, of her initiating a kiss. Of her, perched on the edge of the washer, skirt hiked up. Of her legs sliding around his waist and pulling him in. He felt his cock twitch.

Her eyes widened further and he knew she'd felt it, too.

"Fuck," he whispered, pushing away. Turning his back to her, he clutched the back of his head with both hands, willing his body to calm itself. "I'm sorry."

She said nothing, but he could hear her breathing. As uneven and rapid as his own.

"I didn't call you so I could… Do that," he muttered, forcing his legs to carry him away from the laundry closet. Turning, he saw she was still facing the washer. Still gripping the edge. "I swear, Cat, I didn't mean… I just…"

Still she said nothing, slowly releasing her hold on the washer. When she swiveled around, her lips were still parted. Her eyes were still wide. Her breasts rose and fell with each breath. And she stared at him.

"I mean," he went on, still floundering for an excuse for his behavior. Even though nothing had happened, he felt she deserved an explanation. "You're a beautiful woman, but it's more than that. It's… You're funny and kind and you're intelligent. And you're great with my sons and… I know you probably don't feel it, but—"

"I do," she whispered, so faintly he thought at first he had imagined the words. "I do, Shane."

Thank god for that, he thought, releasing his breath slowly. But an earlier conversation came to mind, and he met her eyes. "You said you'd only felt that zing twice."

"You…" She blinked, a look of disbelief crossing her face. "You didn't… You idiot," she finally blurted. "The second time was you."

Oh. _Oh_. He almost stepped forward, but halted himself, feeling his heart drop. "I would be a mistake?"

She shook her head. "No… I don't think you would. You're probably the furthest thing from a mistake there could be."

He wondered if he should take that as a compliment. "Cat…"

"But it can't happen," she stressed.

Shocked to see tears forming in her eyes, he stepped closer. His heart twisted for her, and for himself when she ducked and slipped away. Following her, he gently grasped her arm as she turned the corner into the kitchen. She gasped as he brought her to him, and he bit his tongue when her breasts pushed against him. "Why?" he asked gently.

"Because it can't." She closed her eyes. Pressed her lips tightly together. "You deserve so much better than me."

"Cat, that's—"

"Let me go." Her voice was strained, and he watched one tear spill onto her cheek. "Please."

He let her go.

He watched her jam her feet into her shoes. Watched her fight with her raincoat. He knew better than to help and shoved his hands into his pockets when she groaned and threw the coat over her shoulder. He had millions of questions running through his mind but could vocalize none of them. When she snatched up her purse and several coins spilled out and clattered on the kitchen floor he stooped to retrieve them, hating every second of silence. He held the coins out to her, lifting his gaze from the floor to her face. She took them, fingers barely grazing his, and was gone before he could straighten up.

Just as the door was swinging shut behind her, he saw her hand shoot out to catch it, and felt a tiny bit of hope rise when she walked back inside. She said nothing, though, and the hope faded while she retrieved the bag of containers she'd left on the counter. When she reached the door, she hesitated, then turned a pair of sad blue eyes to him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Then she was gone.


End file.
